Gone Wylde 03: It's Not All Fun and Games
by Concolor44
Summary: Wendy discovers that her relationship with Karl is far more complicated than she knew. Her ex-husband is out for blood. The Knights ramp up their campaign of hate. And WHAT is with all the NIGHTMARES? Is a little happiness too much to ask for? Maybe so..
1. Chapter 1 The Encounter

**Gone Wylde Book Three: **

**It's Not All Fun and Games**

by Clint McInnes

. . .

. . .

. . .

_* * Author's Note: Welcome, Gentle Reader, to the third installment of Wendy's saga. I just wished to make it known that if you have not read the first two Books ("Moving Things Around", and "Is This Deceit Necessary?") you may find yourself somewhat at a loss. A great deal of character development was undertaken in the previous Books, and some of the interactions won't make much sense unless you read them first. * *_

. . .

. . .

. . .

**_Chapter One – The Encounter_**

**Madness takes its toll.**

**Please have exact change.**

##

_** Late September - - - night **_

In western Montana, between the Continental Divide and Flathead Lake, lie tens of thousands of hectares of some of the most rugged land in the lower forty-eight states. Most of it, when mapped at all, has been mapped only by satellite. And most of it is federal land. One could stand in the center of it and see pine scrub and rock slides, un-traveled valleys and unnamed mountains stretching to the horizon in all directions. No roads within a week's walk. No electricity, no communication hubs, no inhabitants.

It's a good place to hide.

On the western side of one range, near the bottom of a deep valley no cartographer had yet noticed, there is a cabin. A very rude cabin. One room, which no one would describe as weather-tight, with one doorway, no windows, and a large, flat stone in the center to serve as a hearth. A simple hole is cut in the roof to let some of the smoke out. A pile of brush in one corner serves as a bed. There are no cooking implements in the cabin. Its occupant has no need for any.

A small fire burns on the hearth. Between the hearth and the door, a large mat of woven fur covers the dirt floor. The mat is charged with odd symbols and glyphs arranged in a circle between two concentric rings. Inside the inner ring is a thaumaturgic triangle. Inside the triangle kneels the cabin's builder.

He is a large, rangy timber wolf, his dense black fur very long, very dirty, matted with burrs, home to lice and fleas. As he poses there on paws and knees, he will occasionally reach down to a pile of half-dried herbs and cast a pawful of them on the fire. The smoke they give off is sickly sweet and heavy. It obscures vision between the door and the fire. The greasy residue of the smoke coats every surface in the hut.

The wolf has been in this position for the last fifty hours.

_I will resist no longer._

He has neither eaten nor drunk in that time. His mouth is fiercely dry and tastes of blood and rotten sawdust.

_I will obey._

His bright red, bloodshot eyes bulge from his head, and seem to glow in the dim light of the cabin; but it may only be the reflection of the guttering fire.

_I hate them._

He wears no clothing, but has an elaborate headdress of many types of fur, and his own pelt is covered with sigils like those on the mat. And, like those on the mat, these symbols are drawn using the blood of his prey.

He lifts his head and through stiff, bleeding flews rasps the mantra he has adopted, the words he has repeated more than once an hour for the last two days, the words he was given, the words he has accepted at last, relieved to be spared the responsibility of decisions.

"Grant me, O Master, the lives of my enemies.

Let me find them.

Let their blood stain my teeth.

Let me taste their fear.

This one thing I ask, O Master."

His head drops again to his chest. His arms are trembling, the elbows locked.

_AND WHY SHOULD I DO THIS THING FOR YOU?_

Every muscle in the wolf's body goes rigid with terror. _No! It worked! _In his more lucid moments he had never expected it to work. But now that he has actually made contact, the prospect of dealing with this being brings nothing but horror. He could not have raised his head at that moment no matter the incentive. The intensity of the raw, vitriolic malice in the sibilant voice was beyond anything in even his fevered, psychotic dreams. He had thought his mouth dry before, but now. . . . _The others guide me._ He tries several times to swallow, then speaks.

"I am your slave, Master. You owe me nothing. I only seek to do your will."

There is no response. His trembling increases with his terror at what he has done. He waits for over a minute.

_WHAT WILL YOU GIVE ME?_

It is not possible to keep his voice from shaking. In a halting stutter, he says, "I-I-I offer m-m-my . . ." he tries to lick his lips with a tongue as stiff and dry as a salt flat . . . "my s-soul, O Master."

The laughter emanating from the hearth is accompanied by a stench so foul the wolf buckles and falls to his side. He cannot breathe; increasingly, he cannot think. He can only fear.

_THAT I HAVE ALREADY. IS THAT ALL YOU OFFER?_

The wolf is beyond thinking, beyond expression as his world spirals in to condense around these words. He is drowning in the essence of this other. He grasps at a possible answer, not even sure exactly what he is saying.

"My enemies! . . . I will give you their souls. . . . Please, Master." His breath is a ragged sucking. He is almost unconscious.

The fire blazes up, higher, higher yet. The roof catches. One tongue of flame licks down to the mat. Its edge begins to smolder. The sigils emblazoned on it are glowing, now red, now orange, now yellow.

_GET UP, FOOL._

The wolf shambles to his feet, mewling in his fear. The fire fills the hut, the heat scorches him, singes the fur and cracks the skin of his face. He sways before the roaring inferno, blind and gibbering.

_IF YOU DESIRE THIS THING, COME TO ME._

The wolf stumbles as he moves forward. He steps off the mat. A gigantic club seems to swat him flat to the earth. Massive paws grip him, hold him down. He feels, pressed against his forehead, a hot iron, and he screams. The pain fills his head, flows down his spine, invests his limbs. His next scream sounds as if it tears out his throat with it. The pain is past feeling, surpasses intensity, consumes his world, burns him to ash.

The fire is all.

There is nothing of himself left.

_SERVE ME, AND YOU WILL LIVE._

At that point, he is allowed to faint.

##

_** early next morning **_

He awakens. He lies still for several minutes, his eyes clouded and half-closed. He is unsure of where he is. Then he remembers. Slowly, fighting his stiff and unresponsive limbs, he sits up, and looks around the cabin. The fire has gone out, the mat appears untouched, the roof is sound. There are no scorch marks on his fur. None of this appears to surprise him.

He crawls out of the hut and down to the stream, where he immerses his head. He pulls it out, shakes the water off, and then drinks deeply.

He goes back to the cabin. On a shelf high along the back wall, there is a rawhide pouch. He lifts it down and removes several pieces of the rancid, dried meat stored in it. He begins to eat.

_They are silent today. That is good._ He ties the pouch around his waist with a length of vine. He sets off at a measured lope, headed toward the Great Divide, headed east.

Headed toward his enemies.


	2. Chapter 2 Fire vs Frying Pan  Part A

_Chapter Two – Fire versus Frying Pan – Part A _

**This world is a comedy for those who think,  
****and a tragedy for those who feel.**

– _**Horace**_

##

_** Sunday 25 September 2016, 6:02am **_

It was still over an hour until dawn. If she had scooted over to the edge of the bed, Wendy could have spotted the field of stars that yet twinkled in the deep bluish black expanse outside her window.

If she had been awake, that is.

And if she had cared.

But neither of those two conditions obtained. She slept, finally, fitfully though it be, after a night spent vacillating between wounded anger and self-recrimination. Several wet spots on the sheet and pillow gave silent, soggy testimony to her troubles.

And now her dreams were troubled as well.

_The wind is high. _

_The cloudless sky is dark as slate. _

_The land is flat, and gray as the sky. _

_No trees break the monotonous expanse. _

_She must push, push against the wind, toward the only spot of light on the horizon, but it is so far, so far, and she is so tired, and now the land is steeper, and she must push, push up the ragged, rocky hill that scrapes her footpads until they bleed, against the wind that blows the grit into her eyes, her nose, she is so thirsty, and she tries to see the light but the wind is stronger and now there is a shadow between her and the light, and the shadow is moving, moving toward her, and the shadow is dark, so intensely dark, and the shadow has fur, and the shadow is black, and the shadow has eyes, hollow, hollow eyes, and it sees her . . . ._

"_**Get away!**__**" **_

Her own eyes fly open as the words escape her lips and the tatters of nightmare tear and fade into the corners. She jerks upright in bed and stares around the room for a few moments before flopping back down on the pillow.

"Stupid dream."

She looks over at the clock on the bedside table and groans to herself. "Two whole hours of sleep. Yippee."

She lay there for a while, but further sleep seemed elusive. _Not really sure if I even __want__ to go back to sleep just now. That dream was ugly, and it might come back._ Yawning, she slid out from under the quilts, padded into the bathroom, and started running a bath for herself.

##

_** 7:15am **_

The toaster oven chimed, letting Wendy know that her bagel was ready. She put down her grapefruit spoon and got up to retrieve the other half of her breakfast, rubbing her scratchy eyes with both paws. She stopped halfway to the counter and stretched hugely, scratched the damp fur on the back of her neck, then took the remaining few steps to the toaster, yawning the whole time.

She carried the bagel halves back to the table, set them on her plate, and opened the tub of fat-free cream cheese. But then she just sat and stared at her meal.

Once more, she tried her best to figure out where the evening had gone wrong. They'd been having such a good time, sharing little tidbits of each other's childhood, sharing hugs, sharing the apples, and then . . . Oh, then! That was the best part. He'd turned out to be a truly exceptional kisser. The warmth of his embrace, the taste of his tongue, the ghost of his scent still lingered, even after her bath. Her mouth tingled even now, a faint echo of the prickles that come when a limb has fallen asleep and is being revived. She ran her tongue around her teeth and swallowed.

Or maybe it was just her over-tired imagination.

It had felt so good, having him hold her close as they stood on the front porch. _So __good_. And she had done the most reasonable, most logical thing, taken the most obvious next step, when she invited him in.

But he had demurred.

Why? What was wrong? Was there something wrong with her? Had she embarrassed him?

No, it wasn't her. His objections were based on his damned, hyper-conservative moral code.

So then why had she insisted?

And why had he been so stubborn?

Was he ashamed of her? Was she really all _that_ unattractive? He certainly hadn't seemed to think so earlier.

Questions had escalated to accusations, conversation to shouting.

He wanted to know why she couldn't stand there for just half a minute and let him explain his position. Didn't she care at all about his feelings?

She wanted to know what the hell possible _objection_ he could _have_! Maybe there was something wrong with _him_? Maybe he had a little _problem_?

Finally, reason had given way to raw, untempered emotion. She'd ended the fight by slamming the door in his face.

Her bagel grew quite cold as she sat there, pondering.

_Why?_

There was a universe of self-doubt and fear in that single, three-letter word.

She had no answers. And she really could have used some.

##

_** 12:45pm **_

The last of the congregation had filed out the door after shaking Pastor Grey's paw. He pulled up the doorstops and let them swing shut, then turned back to collect his notes when he noticed Karl's huge bulk sitting beside the lectern.

"Well, hey, there, Brother. Something on your mind?"

"Uh-huh."

"You want to go to the office, or do we need more, um . . . privacy than that?"

"No, the office is fine. This is all current events. Way too current." He got up with rather more heaviness in his movements than Alan was used to. As they headed toward his office, the tall squirrel offered up a short but fervent prayer that he would be able to help his friend.

Karl sank onto the carpet in the corner by the door and sat cross-legged, eschewing the chairs out of respect for their inability to hold him. Alan sat at his desk. He asked, "Does this have to do with the inquest over that 'purist' bunch? They bothering you or Martin?"

Karl shook his head.

"That whole affair going to suit you?"

He shrugged and nodded. "I suppose."

"So you need to talk about something personal?"

"Yes."

"Mind if I hazard a guess?"

Karl leaned his head back against the wall, eyes closed, muzzle pointed slightly up. "You already know, I feel sure."

"Ah-huh. That would make it Ms. Wylde, then."

"Yes."

"All right. Did you talk to her? As you'd planned to do?"

"Yes."

"Judging from your expression, it didn't quite go your way."

"No, I wouldn't say that, Alan. Not initially. I wouldn't put it that way at all."

Alan waited, saying nothing, allowing Karl to gather his thoughts.

"Do you remember when she showed up at the ice cream social in August?"

Alan thought for a few seconds and nodded. "She came and had a bowl of ice cream and just sat and listened, didn't she?"

"You don't miss much."

"I don't remember that she said anything at all. And she left after about, oh, maybe an hour."

"A little over an hour."

"Okay. She seemed like a very reserved sort."

"She isn't normally. She's usually quite vivacious. That's one reason that I thought she'd had a rotten time at the social. As it turned out, I was wrong." He paused in thought for a moment. "Several days after you and I had our last session, I went fly-fishing in Ash Creek, and Wendy just showed up. I'm sure she didn't know I was there, didn't plan to run into me. In fact, I got the distinct impression that she fell in the water while trying to see who I was."

"Fell in the water?"

"Yep. I got her out, helped her dry off. We talked for a long time." He repositioned his head, staring at a spot on the front of Alan's desk. After a moment, he continued. "You know how I've always been uncomfortable around the anniversary of Phoebe's death?"

" 'Uncomfortable' is a very mild way of putting it, but yes, I know about that."

"This encounter took place the day after the anniversary. I'd been awfully restless for a couple of days, and decided to relax by fishing. I didn't feel like visiting with anyone, and Wendy was the last furson on my mind at that point. I was standing there in the water, trying to concentrate on convincing the fish that my lure was a blackfly, when I heard someone whacking through the undergrowth. Not expecting company, and realizing I was downwind, I turned up my sense of smell, and that's when I discovered it was she. And, Alan, I can't begin to describe the thrill that ran through me."

"The thought of her being there was exciting, then?"

"Hmh. Exciting. Yes. Exciting in the same respect that a carbon arc can be considered 'warm'."

"Oh."

Karl met his eye. "A lot of it had to do with her scent, which, as I mentioned before, is identical to Phoebe's."

Alan nodded.

"So, naturally, scent being the primal connection that it is, I got a flood of memories. I'm glad Wendy didn't walk up at that point, or I would have broken down completely."

"So enough time passed to allow you to get a grip on yourself."

"Correct. Several minutes. Then she fell in, and I pulled her out and carried her to the bank. She lost most of her lunch in the creek." Seeing the look on Alan's face, he clarified, "I mean it all got soaked. Not that she threw up."

"Oh. Good."

"Since I had plenty, I offered to share, and we talked a good bit. Got a few things . . . oh, hashed out, I guess you'd say. She _had_ enjoyed the social, but as a spectator. Said she found the conversations going on around her very stimulating. But then she wanted to know a bit about the past, and started asking questions about Phoebe. One of her questions hit awfully close to home, and I came very near to losing it entirely. I'm betting she has no idea just _how_ near."

"Ouch."

"But I didn't. Nor did I that evening, after we parted company. We spent much of the rest of the day together, most of it at the Inn, just talking." He looked over at his pastor, his expression level. "Alan, I hadn't had such a pleasant conversation before in my life."

"Huh. That's, um . . . quite a statement."

"I know."

"What made it so different?"

"Half a hundred little things. She is the easiest furson to just _talk_ to I've ever met. Our discussion ranged over a huge array of topics, and she knew some about all of them. She was absolutely scintillating, and I feel sure she had no clue how it affected me."

"And how did it affect you?"

"See, now that's the . . . unusual part of the whole thing. As I told her before we left the creek, looking at her was almost like seeing double because Phoebe was constantly in the background. But, Alan," he drew a deep breath, "by the end of the day, I wasn't even really thinking about Phoebe at all. It was all Wendy. She has an intensely captivating presence."

"Have mercy! Are you serious?"

"Dead serious. I was having such a good time talking with Wendy, Phoebe just quietly slipped out of my mind."

"Praise the Lord! That's . . . that's something of a breakthrough."

"I have offered Him my praise. Often. Praise and thanks."

"So, have you been troubled since? By those nightmares?"

"No."

"Not at all?"

"Not at all."

"Incredible. That is wonderful news!"

"Yes, I must agree with you. But _that_ is only part of the story. And not the biggest part, not by a stretch."

"Go on."

"Well, I started arranging things so that I was spending a good bit of time in her company, one way or another. I started eating at the Inn three or four nights a week, I was out there to repair things almost as often, and when I noticed her working herself to death trying to fix the place up, I convinced her to take a couple of days off to relax and do some sight-seeing with me."

"A couple of days? Where?"

"Up around the northern part of the state, mostly above Montpelier. And before you ask, yes, we stayed at a motel, and no we didn't share a room. It was all very proper."

The rangy squirrel grinned at his friend. "Glad to hear it. So, did she appreciate that?"

"I couldn't really tell at the time, but recent events have led me to believe that she would rather have shared a bed."

"Oh. I see. That's too bad."

"Yeah."

"What makes you think that?"

Karl dropped his head and stared at his paws for a minute. "Last night."

Alan rubbed his snout with one paw. "I take it something significant happened last night."

"Very significant. You know that hayride the VFD put on?"

"Oh, sure. I was going to take Sandee, but Caroline came down with a case of croup and we didn't feel comfortable leaving her with somebody else." He cocked his head and asked, "Did you and Wendy go?"

"That we did. And it was wonderful. She is . . . she's more than somewhat evancalous."

"Sorry?"

"It feels really, _really_ good to hold her."

"I see." He leaned forward. "But you found yourself in a spot of difficulty?"

"I did."

"How far did things go, if you don't mind my asking?"

"Not nearly as far as they could have gone." He pulled his legs up, wrapped his arms around them, and rested his chin on his knees. "We spent the first hour or so just talking, kind of the way we did at the Inn. But then . . ."

". . . . . Then it progressed beyond talking."

"Yes. I hadn't planned for it to . . ."

"We hardly ever do. That's the problem with putting yourself in a situation like that. Attraction and desire are hard to ignore."

"Boy, you can say that again."

"And when a male is in the presence of a beautiful femme, those are the natural, understandable responses. It's the way males are wired."

"Well, I can certainly attest to that."

"But that's why one of the gifts of the Spirit is self-control. And, that's why we are instructed to 'flee immorality'. God is fully aware that we don't always have the necessary reserves to fight off temptation, so his recommendation is that we avoid it when possible."

"I know, I know. That was in the back of my mind the whole time, much good it did. But that point you made about 'wiring' doesn't _just_ apply to males."

Alan's expression turned very sober. "Would you like to elaborate on that statement?"

Karl leaned back again, then spread out flat on the floor, his arms behind his head as a pillow. "She's an amazing woman, Alan. Quite ethereal in her own way. She has this feeling of fey youth she exudes that's almost . . . almost supernatural."

_He's hooked. He's hooked bad._ "I see. What else?"

"She's a very sexual creature, herself."

"Really? And you know this, how?"

Karl sighed. "Okay. The hayride came to an end about, oh, fifteen minutes after we, um, after we discovered our mutual interest."

"That's an amazingly delicate way of putting it."

"A gentlefur doesn't kiss and tell, even in counseling."

"Maybe he does, if he really wants help."

"Cut me some slack, Alan. I'm having a hard enough time as it is."

"Okay, Karl. Take your time. I've got nowhere else I need to be for a while."

The wolverine stared at the ceiling for most of a minute, then continued. "We 'broke the clinch' when the wagon stopped. Neither of us wanted to, but there you are. So we collected our stuff and climbed down and went back to the car. See, I'd picked her up. It _was_ kind of a date, after all. So. . . . . . We didn't say much on the ride back to the Inn, but when we got there, she leaned over and kissed me again."

Alan waited. He respected Karl and knew he would express what he needed to, given time.

"What I did after that is one of the most difficult things I've ever managed to accomplish."

"Ah-huh. That's saying something."

He looked over at the squirrel. "Not the way you think. Physical exertions have never really presented me with any challenge. It's what I did, what I lived for. You might say, what I was designed for. Same with killing. I was very, very good at it. Did it almost without thinking, like an instinctive thing. Same with sexual conquest. If I wanted a femme, and went after that femme, I got that femme. Again, almost as an instinct."

Alan just sat, silently.

"But last night I did something I had never even _attempted_ before in my life."

Karl said nothing more for such a long stretch, it prompted Alan to comment, "That's a bold pronouncement."

"And completely true." He drew a long, slow breath, letting it out through his nose. "Alan, last night, I turned down an invitation to have sex with a beautiful woman."

"And? That sounds like quite an accomplishment. Does it feel like a personal victory? Or is it something you regret?"

"Possibly a bit of both, but I honestly just don't know. Part of me still wants to, right this very minute. Part of me wants her, aches for her touch, the feel of her fur on mine."

_He's got a long, hard road ahead of him, I'm afraid._ "But the other part?"

"The other part knows better. But, dear _Lord_, it's hard."

"Yes, it is."

"Alan, I never had any reason to do that before. Exercise that level of self-control, I mean. Before becoming a Christian, it wasn't an issue. It never bothered me that I was leaving a trail of broken hearts and wounded spirits behind me. I didn't have the same perspective that I do now."

"Comes with the territory. When you realign _your_ goals with God's goals _for_ you, you can expect some resistance from the culture, and sometimes even more from your own natural urges. That is especially evident if, as in your case, you come to God late in life, bringing lots of baggage and issues and deeply-ingrained habits along. That doesn't always hold true, but it works that way in the majority of furs."

"Yes. You and I talked about that some right before I made my decision to become a Christian. But I never dreamed it would have the intimate, personal application that it does this day."

Alan nodded. "So she invited you to come in with her after the date?"

"She did. And it was . . . an _unbelievable_ mêlée that I waged with myself. I knew, in stark detail, what I was refusing. I knew it would give us both a major dose of physical pleasure and release. But I also knew it wouldn't be right, it wouldn't be _fair_ to either of us, if I accepted."

"How did she take it?"

Karl shook his head slowly. "Not well. Not well at all."

"Mmhh. I'm sorry to hear that. So you argued?"

"Oh, 'argued' is where it _started_. 'Pitched battle' would be a better description of how it ended. I think she hurt her throat from screaming. And she slammed the door on me."

"Oooo. I'm sorry." He paused a second. "I doubt that it will help much, but you can take _some_ comfort in knowing that you aren't the first male ever to feel this way."

"You're right. It doesn't help much."

"You know what would probably help more?"

"Yes. I do." He sat up and folded his legs under him. "Would you like to start? I'm not up to much right now."

"I'd be happy to, Brother." And they bowed their heads.

##


	3. Chapter 2 Fire vs Frying Pan  Part B

**_Chapter Two – Fire versus Frying Pan – Part B _**

##

_** 4:18pm **_

Sabrina pointed to the right. "Turn here, Hon."

"This one?"

"Uh-huh. That's what the directions say. 'Two blocks off of US Highway 302 in Barre', on this road."

He had made the turn while she spoke, and they saw the sign for the motel almost immediately. Chris made another right turn into the parking lot, and pulled up under covered entrance. "Well! This doesn't look too bad. I guess Mr. Truefoot has our best interests at heart after all." He looked the building over approvingly. The paint was fresh, the windows clean, the landscaping nicely understated. No litter marred the lot.

"Well, dear, since he's paying for it, we can't really quibble."

"Yeah, Dad," chimed in Daren, "there ain't no such thing as a free lunch."

Chris' head swiveled around to zero in on his oldest son. "You, my boy, read too much Heinlein."

"No way, Dad. Can't be done." Daren, who had been an indifferent reader until mid-summer, had discovered _The Star Beast_ and _Tunnel in the Sky_ in the public library, and that had been all it took. He had raced through the rest of Heinlein's juvenile novels, then _The Moon Is A Harsh Mistress_, and was currently working on one of the short story anthologies.

Chris got out and padded into the lobby.

"Where are we gonna eat supper, Mom?" Samantha wanted to know.

"Mr. Truefoot is having it catered in. He doesn't want us out and about any more than is necessary."

Samantha's eyes went round. "What?"

Daren concurred. "That's right, Sam. We're stuck in the good ol' motel for the duration."

"But – but – can't we, like, you know, go, um, sightseeing or anything?"

Sabrina sighed. "Samantha, I'll do what I can to see about visiting your young man, but I can't promise anything."

"Mom! I already _told_ him we were coming! He's _expecting_ to see me! We've _got_ to!" Sudden panic gave a lilt to her voice.

"Samantha, please! I told you, I'll do what I can. But staying out of sight is for our own safety. Do you want to run into any of our attackers' friends?"

"Well . . . . . no."

"Then we stay here. The State Troopers will escort us to the courthouse and back. It will all be over by tomorrow afternoon, and we can go back home." She held up a paw to forestall the coming protest. "And we'll stop in New Haven Junction on the way. Will that do?"

"Oh, thanks, Mom! Thanks. Yes, that will work." She sat back in the seat, thinking furiously.

"Wow." This from Daren, who was back in his book.

Samantha looked over at him. "What?"

"I want some waldos!"

"What's a waldo?" she asked with a frown.

"It's this great manipulator, see? And you wear this glove thingy, see? And . . ."

Chris opened the door and said, "Okay, we got the room. It's all the way around at the back. Security reasons, I guess. There don't seem to be many furs here." He started up the van and pulled around the side of the building.

##

_** 7:15pm **_

The room was adequate: a small suite. Nothing fancy, but it got the job done.

The meal was adequate. It was filling, but Sabrina wished she could have dined at Ash Creek Café instead.

The TV was adequate: it had basic cable, and Chris and the kids had become involved in a nature special on poisonous animals. Currently featured was the Australian funnel-web spider. The hideous thing had given Sabrina the willies, so she went back into their bedroom to try calling Wendy again.

Ring. . . . Ring. . . . Ring. . . . "_Hello, this is Wendy. No, just kidding! Really this is my voicemail. If you wish, you may_ . . ."

Sabrina hung up. _I wonder where she is. She ought to have had guests at the Inn this weekend, so she ought to be there._ It was a bit puzzling.

##

_** 7:45pm **_

A merry blaze lit the small clearing, the flames reflecting faithfully in the smooth surface of the pond. The banner with the cell's emblem stood proudly to one side, suspended smartly between two stout poles. A baker's dozen of the mid-level Knights stood or sat in small groups, waiting for word of the next phase of their campaign.

A short ferret walked up behind Red Jack and cleared his throat. The tall Setter turned and said, "Yes?"

"Here, ya go, Mr. Damien, sir. That's the whole list, there, sir." He held out two sheets of paper.

"Thank you, Simms." He scanned the names, then flipped to the bottom of the second page. "One hundred and sixteen. That should be sufficient. We ought to be able to get three or four hundred percent overlap."

"Yes, sir. There was lots of 'em hot to sign up, sir. They all want a piece of those scumbreds."

"As well they should." He made a few notes on the list, folded it and stuck it into a pocket of his overcoat. "We are almost ready. Does Blackie have everything he needs?"

"Oh, yeah! We got that mobile mount he asked for. He looked it over, and says it'll be so steady now he can call which eye he's gonna put the slug in at a hundred yards."

"Tell him to make it meters, and make it _two_ hundred. We don't want any screw-ups this time."

"Yes, sir!"

Damien's PA warbled at him. He whipped it out, flipped it open, and said, "Yeah?"

The voice on the other end was electronically distorted, a side effect of the scrambling system. "Just wanted to let you know we confirmed that they still think Evans is the primary target."

Damien grinned. "Don't you love it when a plan comes together?"

"Sure do. We'll give you any updates as we get 'em. And good hunting, brother."

"Amen." He closed the device and slipped it back into his pocket. "Simms, where is Vulpexa?"

That reflected nothing but a blank stare from the ferret.

"The fox who was part of the group on trial. The one who skipped bail."

"Oh! Him. Uh, he was around earlier. You want me to find him?"

"Yes. I need some more information about that mouse who attacked him."

"Okay, Mr. Damien, sir, I'll go get him!" And he trotted off.

##

_** 10:35pm **_

Quietly but insistently, Ash Creek gurgled and splashed as the water from the small springs combined with the rain runoff to meander northwest toward Little Otter Creek. The trailing willows and the ancient maple had lost all but a few of their leaves, leaving the scattered conifers to hold firm against the ever-lengthening nights. Several meters back from the bank, in the ruined gazebo, Wendy sat, staring across the water's dark expanse, staring at nothing.

The fight with Karl, and the nightmare that followed, had nipped at her heels all day. There was no one at the Inn just now, her guests having been short-stayers who left Saturday afternoon, and she had been too bothered and (truth to tell) just plain too weary to arrange anything at the Café this evening. She'd wandered about the huge, empty house, picking up a book, only to carry it with her, unread, and absently drop it elsewhere. She hadn't felt like doing any decorating in the suite Jacinto had prepared. Her creative energies were definitely at low ebb. She'd fixed herself a few cups of hot tea, and a piece or two of toast, but had eaten nothing else since breakfast. On top of that, she had been afraid that she was coming down with a cold, or something similar. She'd had bouts of sudden chills followed by hot flashes all day, her mouth still tingled faintly, and she'd gone really wobbly in the knees twice. But the various symptoms had eased off in the late afternoon.

Mainly to get out of the cavernous house, she bundled up and wandered down to the Creek shortly after sunset, settling into the weathered wood seat of the gazebo, and letting the Creek work its soothing magic on her. It hadn't been such a bad idea, either. After listening to an hour of brooksong, letting the murmuring stream carry her tensions away with it, she had started to think clearly about her situation. She began by running through the short list of her last several relationships.

Karl (if you could call that a relationship) had some serious hang-ups about sex, so he wasn't an option, since Wendy, you might say, was not the type of femme who could be a nun.

Chase was a lying, thieving, low-down bum. A real looker, but a bum.

Jerry was hot-tempered, manipulative and unstable.

Stan hadn't been interested in anything _besides_ sex, which was okay as far as that goes, but gets tiresome after a while.

Barry was a nice guy, not too bad in bed, but a bit of a bore, and not really any backbone to speak of.

Scott . . . oh, yeah. Scott. The klepto. Scott had been one of the reasons for her getting her new holodisc system, since he had copped most of her CD's. And some jewelry, and assorted other items. The swine.

Then there was Dinah, a sweet girl, and bisexual like herself, an enthusiastic lover, but frankly not too bright, and it just hadn't worked out very well.

George . . . was George next? She wasn't sure if it was George or Brad. Eh, they'd both been bobcats, and little more than flings, anyway. And before that was . . . Calvin? It got a little hazy. Marco fit in there somewhere, too. And Elliot. And Randy . . . or was it Ricky?

Not much of a track record.

But she did remember Jenna. She remembered the slight skunk femme _very_ well. A good friend, and a confirmed lesbian, Jenna had been the first fur to break through her shell after the divorce, the first to get her to open up, the first to re-ignite her flame, if you will. They had been an item for most of a year, before work took the skunk to New York. They had parted as friends, and kept in touch. Wendy had spent the holidays with her and her brother's family twice in the last four years.

So. That meant what? All males are scum and all femmes are wonderful? She knew better than that.

But it did mean that perhaps she ought to think more aggressively in that other direction. Ellen had dropped some hints . . . . No, not Ellen. That would be pretty smelly, dating the hired help. But what options did she really have, stuck out here in the boonies this way?

She rearranged her tail, tucking it up inside her parka. A slight breeze had kicked up, waving a greeting to the treetops, and driving the chill of the night through fabric and fur.

She leaned over and rested the side of her head against the rough, weathered wood. _Currently, girl, your options are damned few._ Basically, Karl was the only one on paw that had shown an interest in her. It wasn't that Karl was a bad furson, not by any means. He'd been really great. He was a good friend, and mighty useful to have around. He was a _wonderful_ conversationalist, hell, talking with him was the best part of being with him. Except for kissing him, but then that was . . . . .

Well, damn.

Back to square one.

What _was_ it that Karl had objected to? The time and place? The fact that it was their first date? The physical intimacy itself? She couldn't really remember, the fight had gotten so hot, so quickly. She thought it had something to do with not being married. But come on! Would you buy a car without taking it for a test drive? Please!

_He definitely wasn't being reasonable. Not reasonable at all._

_I could just chunk the whole thing, board up the house, move back to civilization, and get a job._

_Hah! You think anyone would hire you after finding out about that stunt you pulled when you left StrongArm?_

_Well, I could always open my own accounting business._

_Like **that's** something you really want to do._

_Better than rotting here!_

_But are you rotting? The Café is getting popular. Word gets around, you could get a write-up in a gourmet magazine, maybe_

_I'll believe that when I see it._

_All I'm saying is, you're just in a funk because of a fight with a big, dumb wolverine, and you shouldn't throw this whole thing away without a damned good reason._

_And spending the rest of my days alone __**isn't**__ a good reason?_

_That's an awfully bleak attitude, girl._

_Uh-huh. Optimist/pessimist/cynic. Which do you think I am?_

_I'm not saying you don't have a point, just that you ought not to make any rash decisions._

_I won't. But I still don't know what to do about Karl._

_Nothing, right now. He probably won't recover from that blow-up any time soon, and it might be a while, if__ever, before he calls you back._

_How about if I call __**him**__ back?_

_Geez, I dunno. As much of an arch-conservative as he seems to be, that might not work either._

_You're a lot of help._

_Hey, I don't claim to be a genius. I just don't want to do something we'll regret._

A shiver overtook her. To escape the rising breeze, she tried to pull her head farther into her clothing. The cold was getting a lot more intense here by the creek. Enough so that snuggling down into the parka wasn't helping any more. And she had no real desire to freeze to death, lousy prospects notwithstanding. She knew, intellectually, that it wasn't any colder tonight than last night, but last night she'd been cuddled up in a pile of hay with a furry, oversized heat unit. And his arms had cradled her so _well_ and it had felt so _nice_ and . . .

Dammit. _There I go again._

Sighing heavily, she rose to her feet and padded back to the house. Answers seemed few and far between this evening, but maybe a good night's sleep would help her to think.

As long as that stupid nightmare didn't come back. Thinking about that dream gave her a bigger chill than the icy wind.

##

_** Monday 26 September 2016, 8:40am **_

Karl and Martin parted ways outside the courtroom proper. A uniformed femme coyote escorted the mouse down the hall, and around a few twists and turns, to a large holding room where the rest of the minors were to stay while the inquest took place. Only if their testimony was necessary would they be called in.

The officer held the door for him as he entered, but he only made it three steps into the room before stopping to meet Samantha's gaze.

She sat on one of the low chairs, her svelte, black legs curled modestly to the side and crossed at the ankle. She wore a conservative blouse of dark cream chiffon, with a high, frilled collar and ruffles up the front. Her skirt, of heavy satin in an emerald green that matched her eyes, stopped just above her knee. Her long headfur was gathered back into a thick French braid. Emily sat on her lap, looking through a book.

Samantha had been in the middle of a word when she caught sight of the dormouse, and slowly closed her mouth, allowing a refulgent smile to grace her features.

Neither of them moved for several seconds. The officer took in the scene, rolled her eyes, and left.

Martin moved first, slowly walking over to stand a meter or so in front of her. "Good . . . good mornin' to ye, Miss Samantha."

"Hello, Martin." Her low voice sent prickles racing up his neck. She helped Emily off her lap, and stood, clasping her paws together in front of her skirt. "It's nice to see you again."

"I'd call it . . . a fair piece _more_ than nice." His breathing went shallow as he partook of the clear, liquid light of her eyes.

Her smile, if possible, grew more brilliant. She reached out a slender paw and ran a finger down the front of his chest. "I've never seen you in a tie before. It looks good on you."

Daren chose that moment to stick out his paw. "Hi, Marty, good to see you!"

Martin's entire frame keened to the thrill of her touch. Not without difficulty, he shook himself free of Samantha's frank, appraising eyes, and turned to the gray skunk, whom he had not seen until that second. "Gurab amhlaidh duit."

Daren chuckled as he shook Martin's paw. "Wh-what?"

"Oh! Sorry. Same t' you. 'Tis good t' see ye as well." And his gaze strayed back to the black vixen.

An elaborate snort was Daren's response. "I'll talk to ya later, after you two come up for air." And he went back to his book.

"I liked your letter, Martin. It was really sweet."

"I'm _that_ glad ye got it in time, afore ye all had t' come back. I wasn' sure ye would." A blush was beginning to push on the fur of his muzzle. "Tha's why I had t' . . . had t' call."

Emily reached up and tugged at his shirtsleeve. "Wead to me!"

He glanced down at the tiny squirrel child and favored her with a grin. "Top o' th' mornin' to ye, lass. An' what is it ye be readin' then?"

She held up her book. "It's 'Fox In Socks' but dis fox girl can't wead it. She's a fox, an' s'posed to be able to wead it, 'cause it's 'Fox In Socks', but she won't."

Martin gave Samantha a quizzical eyebrow. She explained, "It's a book of tongue-twisters."

"Oh. I see." He looked around the room and spotted a likely arrangement. "Well, lass, why don't we all go sit over there, an' I'll see if I c'n read y'r book for ye." He tingled again when Samantha took his paw; nevertheless, he was able to steer them successfully to the sofa by the window. The dusky vixen sat very close, close enough so that her left thigh pressed against his right one. With her light musk weaving a silken web through his brain, it took all the concentration at his command to focus on the words in the book.

Emily opened it to a page near the middle and said, "Wead me dis one. S'mamfa says she can't do it."

"All right, then, let's see." He cleared his throat. "Through three trees keys, three flee. . . . . um, Through tree threes cheese . . . . . um, Through three cheese please fleas . . . . . um . . . . ."

##

_** 10:00am **_

The atmosphere in the courtroom was, to say the least, tense.

The seventeen defendants, in shackles (and some in casts, splints, or bandages), had spent the first twenty minutes glaring menacingly at the small group of furs on the other side of the room. Well, except for three of them whose eyes were still healing from frostbite.

This situation, and the associated problems, had arisen due to the fact that the defense lawyers had requested an audience with the judge fifteen seconds after the court convened at nine o'clock. So now, nothing was happening and everyone sat around feeling pretty darned useless.

Seeing that the level of animosity was making Debbye and Cinnamon uncomfortable, Lee had spoken briefly with one of the attorneys, and shortly a folding screen sat on the table, blocking the Knights' view. Sabrina gave a sigh of relief as well. The stares had _really_ been bugging her, and Chris more or less had his paws full with comforting her (her tail kept rising of its own accord, and he didn't particularly care to have the court cleared in _quite_ that fashion). He was just glad that only the older members of their group had to be there in the room. If the kids had been subjected to such treatment, he wasn't sure _what_ he would have done. After they settled down, Sabrina fell to chatting amiably with the two squirrels to try to take their minds off the current set of circumstances.

Karl and Lee, on the other paw, after a brief discussion, moved their chairs around to face the Knights, linked arms, and embarked on a staring contest with them.

The cat and the wolverine had several things in common, but one of the more useful, if esoteric, was a background in the 'internal' aspect of the martial arts. Each could, to some extent, channel his life energy, his _chi_, usually as a defensive tool, to absorb blows, prevent damage, or increase speed and accuracy.

But the ability was not solely, or even primarily, defensive. It had other uses: in less than a quarter of an hour, they had the entire group of Knights nervously examining the floor, their chains, their own fingers . . . anything and everything except the other group of furs. Nor did they ease up after achieving that level of equilibrium. They wanted the purists, not just neutral, but cowed, and were well on the way toward that goal when the judge came back in.

The bailiff barked, "All rise!"

The judge was an elderly hare, his muzzle thoroughly grizzled, and his ears drooping, and he didn't look at _all_ happy. He sat down, practically threw a sheaf of papers onto the bench, and made his decree.

"This inquest will take a recess and reconvene tomorrow at 9:00 in the morning." He directed a narrow, jaundiced eye at the lead counsel for the defense, who smirked back at him from his table. "And there will be no further delays thereafter." He picked up his gavel and whacked the board.

Lee turned to the district attorney. "What was that all about?"

"I haven't a clue," he replied grimly, shaking his head, "but I'll let you know in ten minutes." He got up and stalked over to the bench.

Lee and Karl looked at each other apprehensively, then at the rest of their group.

In a low voice, Lee said, "That maneuver positively _reeks_ of 'danger to life and limb'."

"Uh-huh. So what are we going to do about it?" Karl's response was equally quiet.

"The way I see it, the most logical step for them to take is to try to kill us. A bold maneuver, given that there are so many of us, but possible with enough advance planning."

Karl nodded. "I concur. And they have a large labor pool from which to draw, and it has become obvious that their leadership places a low value on life in general. That isn't a promising combination."

"They will try to follow us when we leave the courthouse, and likely will make the attempt tonight. Waiting any longer would give them no advantage."

"Do you consider your safe-house location secure and defendable?"

Lee confirmed that without hesitation. "They're keeping us in the old armory in the next block. It's practically a fortress, and crawling with DoD operatives. We, and Cinnamon and Emily, are quite safe while there. What of your accommodations?"

Karl's smile was grim. "Would that they might give it a try."

Lee chuckled. "You don't often back down from a fight, do you?"

"Not when there's this much at stake, no."

The D.A. walked back up at that point, muttering something about 'bottom-feeders'. "Well, folks, you've just witnessed one of the more slimy aspects of the practice of law. They're only doing it to get under your fur, so please, don't pay them any mind."

Lee's expression was dubious as he asked, "Are you sure about that?"

"Why? You have another angle?"

"If they can follow us when we leave, and find out where we are staying tonight, they may try to eliminate the witnesses."

"Oh, they may definitely try." The D.A. nodded enthusiastically. "In fact, I kinda _hope_ they try. The DoD has enough agents in the greater Montpelier area right now to put a squad on practically every block in the city. And they aren't armed with rubber bullets, either."

Lee pursed his lips and grinned. "Ah. I should have expected that."

"Besides, in about half an hour, a stretch limo is going to be pulling in to the basement garage, but you won't be getting on it. Another, identical vehicle will follow at five-minute intervals for the next ninety minutes. You will be in one of them when it leaves, but they won't know which one. All of them will take meandering routes to several of the hotels in the area, and again, you will get off at one of the hotels, but they won't be able to tell which one."

Lee whistled. "That's a heck of a big shell game. You really think it's necessary?"

"Heh. Doesn't matter what I think. That's what the Secretary of Defense thinks."

It was Karl's turn to whistle. "That's some mighty impressive weight to have in your corner. How did we rate it? The terrorism angle?"

"I believe so." He made sure no one was listening from the other side of the screen, and lowered his voice. "The Knights had known ties to some of the mid-level Cartel functionaries in the past, but when it fell apart back in 2011, that end of the investigation died down. However, as you know, terrorist activity has stepped up in the last year, year and a half, so that case file got reopened. The Federal Investigation Agency has been working with the DoD and the Internal Security Bureau closely for the last six months, and they've uncovered some scary stuff. I wouldn't exactly say that you people are 'bait', but really, I believe the Secretary is secretly hoping they'll slip up and try something. It wouldn't take too much more evidence to have the Knights reclassified as a seditious organization."

Lee's ears went flat. "Ho-ly! That would shut them down for good! No wonder . . . ." He began thinking hard.

Karl said, "I suspected something along those lines. I felt certain I couldn't be the _only_ fur looking into the Knights' activities. Especially after some of the things I dug up."

"No, sir, you weren't. I understand the ISB now has an entire department set up to do only that."

"Yes," he agreed absently. "They've had one for many years."

"Really? I just heard about it. How do you know of it?"

"Hmm? Oh, I, uh, just used to know some people who worked there."

"Oh."

##


	4. Chapter 2 Fire vs Frying Pan Part C

**_Chapter Two – Fire versus Frying Pan – Part C _**

##

_** 1:30pm **_

Red Jack Damien was, as the expression goes, 'fit to be tied' when his lieutenants reported in. "Are you all _BLIND_? You let half-a-dozen furs vanish from under your very noses, and you come whining to me about not having enough _eyes_ to cover the _ground_? You had a hundred and fucking sixteen _pairs_ of eyes!"

"But Mr. Damien, they had almost twenty limos! They all drove around in circles for hours, and stopped at every hotel in the county! Some of 'em are _still_ drivin' around! We _couldn't_ follow 'em all, sir, we just _couldn't_, 'specially with all those military types around! We just got lucky findin' that one family 'cause there was two skunks in the limo and Rico smelled 'em when it stopped at the red light. And he damn near – um, 'scuse me, he came close to losin' his head as it was."

The grinding of Red Jack's teeth was clearly audible across the clearing.

"Whatcha want us to do, Mr. Damien, sir?"

_Imbeciles. You just can't get decent help anymore._ "Call 'em off. We'll have to skip the rest of phase two and go straight to phase three."

"Yes, sir, Mr. Damien, sir, I'm really sorry about all the . . ."

"Shut up."

"Yes, sir."

. . .

From behind a thick clump of weeds several meters back from the edge of the clearing, two lambent golden eyes stared fixedly at the tall fur.

_The big canine is alpha, that much is clear. And he is planning more mischief._ Just exactly what, the feral fox did not know. But it would become clear eventually. Settling even lower into his blind, he watched and waited.

##

_** 4:45pm **_

"But, Karl, are ye sure, then? We doon' wan' t' be imposin' on ye."

"Believe me, Siobhan, it's no imposition. Given what we'd surmised about their activities, I will feel much better about it if all of you stay with me. It will only be for a few days, until after the inquest. Everyone involved is watching the Knights very closely, and we'll be able to tell when the heat dies down."

"Well, then, lad, it's t'at grateful we'd be." She patted the back of his huge paw. "I'd hate t' think o' somethin' happenin' t' me boys."

"As would I. So as soon as the younger ones are finished packing, I'd like to get you all moved in. I've cleared out the front half of the Shop's basement, and set up some privacy barriers. It'll be cozy, but a lot safer than here, in case they decide to come after you."

"Mum?" called Ian. "Robert can't find his overcoat again."

"Och. Beggin' y'r pardon, Karl." She bustled off to help locate the missing garment.

Martin came wandering out of his room, a tightly-stuffed bag over one shoulder. He ambled vaguely past Karl and out the door, the wolverine's gaze following him in puzzled amusement. _That boy is in another world. I'd lay odds it has something to do with a certain young vixen._ He shrugged and went to help Siobhan finish packing.

##

_** 5:00pm **_

Wendy hung up the phone and turned back to the stove, where she had three large pots simmering. Her early-evening group of diners wanted to know if everything was still 'go' for a quarter of six, and she had assured them that all the preparations had been made. _ And life goes on, I guess. _

She checked all the food, adjusting heat under the sweet potatoes, adding a little more spice to the turkey soup, stirring, scraping, and whatnot, and tried to take what pleasure she could from the exercise. If she could keep her mind off her personal life, things really didn't seem all that bad. The two big pans of manchet-bread rolls were rising nicely on the sideboard. The salad was made, and chilling in the refrigerator. The meal promised to be a success.

She still didn't have much appetite herself, though.

Walking over to the east windows, she took note of the trailhead leading down to the Creek. Though the day was raw and blustery, she longed to follow that trail back to the gazebo, but with so many dishes needing her more-or-less constant attention, she didn't feel she could spare the time. But she leaned against the glass, feeling the cold, flat smoothness on her palms, and looked into the forest.

She saw the fox.

Their eyes locked, and she held her breath. Neither moved for quite a few moments, but then . . . .

_[ [ i greet you daughter ] ]_

He was a lot farther away than he had been on either of the other two occasions, but the soft words came just as clearly.

"What do you want?"

The calm, unblinking eyes held hers.

_[ [ we are watching them ] ]_

_We? Who's 'we'?_ "Watching who?"

_[ [ they-who-hate ] ]_

A chill ran down her back, raising the fur. "Are they here?"

_[ [ they hunt ] ]_

"Who? Who do they hunt? Me?"

_[ [ no . . . squirrel, skunk, mouse, fox, cat, wolverine ] ]_

"Holy shit! I better call . . . um, wow, who **_do _**I call?" She knew that the Evanses and Cinnamon and Emily were in protective custody. Sabrina and her family should be in the area somewhere, but she had no idea where. She _really_ didn't feel up to talking with Karl yet. "I'll call Siobhan. She might know how to get in touch with the rest of them." She nodded to the feral. "Thank you."

He dipped his head slightly in return, and melted back into the woods.

But when she called the O'Musca house, no one answered the phone.

"Dammit! Why does this always happen to me?" She flipped open her PA and looked up 'Vermont', then 'government', then 'legal departments', then 'Attorney General', then autodialed the number. It put her into the voice-activated location system, and several minutes later she had spoken with Michael Truefoot's secretary, who promised to pass the information along within the hour.

Wendy broke the connection with a feeling of dissatisfaction. That wasn't what she typically considered closure. She thought for a minute, then dialed Quinn's general store.

##

_** 5:30pm **_

Blackie Mallone had officially been a zealot most of his adult life. Not because he had any particularly strident beliefs, but rather because it tended to pay well. Causes and hot issues had a marvelous propensity for loosening purse strings. So, what Blackie was zealous _about_ could change with little or no warning, and was based heavily on the identity of the fur paying him at the moment.

And at this moment, he was doing a 'favor' for John Damien. The talented Chihuahua had been asked to eliminate some trouble-makers, a straightforward assignment, easily planned, and easily accomplished, even more so now that the number of targets had been reduced to one group, and the weapon of choice changed to one with area effect. His instructions were to take out the femme skunk and her two hybrid offspring. They had crossed the Knights, were material witnesses, and Damien wanted those three out of the way. If the father died too, so much the better.

Blackie hadn't an opinion on that score. He was there to pull a trigger; the consequences were of no import.

He had taken up position on top of a warehouse a couple of blocks away, bolting a rocket launcher to the roof. This was no U.S. military item; rather, it was a small-scale device, an import developed in the Middle East, and designed for more 'surgical' strikes, the warhead double-armed with an explosive and an incendiary. His position put him at the long, hairy edge of the weapon's working range, but it was the best he could come up with given the compressed schedule, and the motel's situation. In any case, Blackie was the fur on the job.

And Blackie didn't miss.

From what he knew of police procedures, he figured that the bluesuits would be arranging for catering, and that was when the motel room would become ground zero. The four family members, all seated and occupied with their meal, would die together.

Given more time and options, he would rather have used a placed charge in the room. He'd pulled that one off often enough almost to make it routine, but it wasn't something that could be set up in the three hours' notice he'd had. No matter. They'd be just as dead this way.

He settled in to wait for supper to arrive.

. . .

_** the clearing **_

The fox disliked touching these minds. They-who-hate always tasted bad, as corrupted as a maggoty carcass. But they must be stopped, so touch he must.

The alpha male squatted beside the fire, talking to the little black thing again. And the fox listened.

Several minutes later, the fox crept soundlessly away, then broke into a run. One of the furs at the edge of the pond caught a motion in his peripheral vision and turned, but the flash of red was gone. He squinted, then went back to sharpening his knife.

. . .

_** the motel **_

"They planning to starve us to death, Dad?"

Chris opened one eye and considered his son from where he lay on the bed. "There are some nuts and whatnot in the bar if you can't wait till supper."

Daren padded over to the small credenza and rummaged through it, coming up with two candy bars. "Hey, that's a deal, Dad! Why can't they just keep pizza in there, too?"

"Heh. Maybe you should suggest that to the Attorney General. I'm sure he'd be interested." He closed the eye and tried to get comfortable. At home, he and Sabrina had a custom-made bed with a thick layer of memory-foam on top which eliminated the morning 'stiff-back' syndrome, and had always assured them of sound sleep. Not so here. _Dang motel bed feels like it's made out of pine cones glued to rebar. The lumps have lumps._ He turned over and shifted several times, but finally gave up and moved to the stuffed chair in front of the TV. Not that he was in the mood to watch anything. He had hidden it (successfully, he thought) from the rest of the family, but he was worried about how this was going to turn out. He'd been reading up on these purists ever since one of them first attacked his daughter, and what he'd learned was not encouraging. _At least they don't have a chapter in our neck of the woods. Maybe when all this is over tomorrow, we can just forget about it._

But an annoying little voice inside told him otherwise.

That annoying voice was more insistent today. He kept getting these stray thoughts, very unsettling images of violence being done. It was really starting to bug him, especially over the last half-hour or so. Almost like something he could actually hear.

. . .

_** the warehouse **_

The Chihuahua's eyes narrowed ever so slightly when he spotted the big delivery van. It pulled up in front of the room, blocking his view, and then the driver got out and spoke briefly to the cop at the door. Then they both went around to the rear of the vehicle and began removing items to a cart.

Blackie eased over to the rocket launcher and checked his aim again. _Show time._

He picked up the firing pendant, and waited.

. . .

_** the motel **_

Chris just sat and watched from his chair as the food was brought in. _This is not right. Something is not right._ Sabrina chatted with the cat from Angelo's Fine Foods as they set out the flatware. Samantha was putting away the pieces of the chess game she and her mother had just finished. Daren was ooohing and aahhing over the steaks that were the main course. Everything _looked_ fine. But it wasn't.

_[ [ __run__ ] ]_

Chris glanced furtively around the room._ What was that?_

_[ [ danger – run ] ]_

"Who said that?"

Sabrina looked over at her husband. "Who said what, dear?"

"I . . ." Who, indeed? He shook his head and worked a finger into one ear. "Sorry," he chuckled. "Guess I'm hearing things."

"What kinda things, Dad?"

"Never mind. It's not imp . . ."

_[ [ danger – must run – get away ] ]_

With an intense frown, Chris sat up, then rose from the chair and went over to the door to peer out. Daren and Samantha watched him, and gave each other a look. The delivery fur was stowing the cart and would be leaving in a minute. Chris called him over. In a low voice, he asked, "Say, Jock, can you . . . can you hear anything?"

That worthy blinked a couple of times, obviously puzzled. "Uh . . . what sorta thing, sir?"

"Well, um . . . voices."

"You hearin' voices?" The timbre of his question irritated Chris.

"I'm trying to find out if someone is playing tricks on me, that's all."

The cat nodded slowly, his doubts about Chris' sanity plain to read in his eyes. "Oh. Of course. No, I don't hear anything."

_[ [ get away ] ]_

"Dammit! You telling me you didn't hear that?"

"Um . . . hear what?"

Chris was in the act of turning back to speak to his wife when he stopped stock-still. The image that flashed into his mind just at that instant, overlaying the scene before him, the image of his family lying dead, rent, burned and torn, was too real to ignore.

_[ [ run ] ]_

"Kids. Honey. Let's go."

The chorus of protest he stilled with the look on his face. "We have to get out of here. I want you to get into the van."

"But Dad!" "Dad, the food'll get cold!" "Honey, do you really think . . ."

_[ [ run fast ] ]_

"**Humor me!"** The three looked at him in surprise, a little shocked, and filed to the door.

Sabrina gave him a concerned frown as she walked past, and reached for his paw. "Do you feel okay, Hon?"

"No, I don't. But just trust me on this, okay? And, no, I can't explain it. Maybe I'll be able to after we're safe."

"Safe from what?"

". . . . . . . I don't know."

She sighed. "All right. If you really think it's necessary, we'll leave."

"You'll need to keep low, get in the driver's side, and hide in the back."

Samantha balked. "Oh, come on, Dad! What's with all this cloak-and-dagger?"

"You can call me a crazy old coot later. Right now, just get into the van, try not to be seen, and let's get gone."

_[ [ soon – soon – run – run ] ]_

The mental image changed, melted, ran, became a fiery blossom of pain. Chris all but pushed them out the door and over to the vehicle, making sure the door to their room was closed. The plainclothes officer took in these activities with a frown and asked, "Where do you think you're going?"

"Away. Far away from here."

"But Mr. Foxx! We need to keep you safe!"

"Exactly." Chris turned to him. "Look, Tony, we're leaving. Now. And you should, too."

The canine crossed his arms. "And why is that?"

"Because if you stay here, you'll die."

The officer looked to Sabrina for either support or explanation, but she shrugged, said, "Might as well tag along with us," and climbed into the van.

Tony shook his head, half in disgust and half in puzzlement, and followed them. They all hunkered down in the back between the trays and bins. Jock got in last and cast an amused glance over his shoulder.

Chris nodded. "Okay, go!"

The driver went. "Where to?"

Tony, looking up from his comm unit and said, "The police station."

Chris countermanded that. "No! Um . . . do you know where the courthouse is?"

"It's downtown ain't it?"

"No, I mean the one in Montpelier."

"_Montpelier!_"

"Uh-huh."

"Well, uh. Yeah, I know it. You want to go _all_ the way over _there_?" They had gone around the back of the motel and were just skirting the far side, heading for the entrance.

"Please."

"Mind if I ask why?"

We've got to talk to Michael Truefoot."

"Uh, okay, um, but I'll have to call my . . ."

The ground shuddered as an explosion rocked the rear of the motel. The two women screamed. Daren and Tony whipped around and stared through the small rear-door windows to see the burst of flame and the column of smoke beginning to rise over the structure, then the gray skunk looked at his father with no small amount of awe. Tony began jabbering into his communicator.

The driver jerked this way and that, trying to check the building in his mirrors, before saying, "Courthouse. Montpelier. You got it." And they sped off.

. . .

_** the warehouse **_

Through the scope, the Chihuahua examined the burning rubble that was all that remained of the Foxxes' motel room. _ Well, that was easy. Went like clockwork. Got a cop in the bargain, too. Always did like a job with a bonus._ Mr. Mallone took his remaining ammunition and a few other items and trotted across the roof to the access door. He opened the (carefully picked) lock and eased inside, making his way to the ground and out the rear entrance, hopping onto the dirt bike waiting there. He took off to the northeast, toward the hills. He would check in with his client while the fire department did their thing, letting him know that everything was copasetic.

. . .

Her tongue lolling almost to the ground, a small, feral vixen watched the motel from the boundary of the landscaping. Like all her kind, she was not physically capable of smiling, but if the capacity had existed, she would have been, her extreme fatigue notwithstanding. After resting for several minutes, she edged back toward the denser wood, turned, and walked off slowly into the shadows.

Her head hurt. She wanted her den and a long sleep.

##

_** 6:18pm **_

Karl had requested that Siobhan prepare bangers and mash for supper, which delighted everyone. They were all (okay, primarily Karl) working on the third pot of potatoes when the phone rang. Martin jumped up and answered it.

"Hello, Fixit Shop, Martin spe . . . . . oh, good evening to ye, Mr. Attorney General, sir! . . . . . Aye, he be in the middle o' supper, but I'll tell 'im." He held the phone away from his muzzle and said, "Mr. Luscus, it be Michael Truefoot wantin' t' speak wit' ye."

Karl took the phone. "Yes, sir, how may I be of service? . . . . . Yes, they are all here with me. . . . . No, I don't think that will be necessary. We're in the basement, and the building is quite structurally sound. . . . . Are you serious? A _rocket_? . . . . . Who was it? . . . . . Is anyone hurt? . . . . . Did they catch the perpetrators? . . . . . How on earth did they manage that?"

The O'Musca's looked at each other with round eyes. Martin and Siobhan came back over to stand by Karl, who just listened for half a minute.

"I see. So are they all safe now?"

"Who? Who is it?" asked Martin. His stomach felt as if he'd swallowed ten kilos of lead shot.

Karl made a 'wait' motion with one paw. "Yes, sir, we will. . . . . Right. . . . . Yes, in the morning at oh-seven-hundred. . . . . No, I think armored cars are an excellent idea. . . . . I'll tell them. And thank you for letting us know. Good night." He hung up and turned to the mice. "Someone found out where the Foxxes were staying and tried to kill them about forty-five minutes ago."

Siobhan's paws flew to her muzzle. "No! Oh, dear Lord! But they all be safe, then?"

Karl nodded. "It would seem that Mr. Foxx had something of a premonition. He can't explain it, and doesn't understand it, but he got some kind of warning right before the attack, and they were able to sneak aboard the delivery van that brought their supper. They are at the courthouse now, and Mr. Truefoot is planning to keep them there."

Siobhan lifted her paws. "Praise t'e workin' o' Providence! T'e Lord wis watchin' oot for t'em." Her accent thickened up noticeably under the strain of emotion.

Karl seemed to agree. "According to Mr. Truefoot, Mr. Foxx started hearing voices in his head. He thought for a bit he was going nuts, but now he's sure there really was an outside agency warning him. And since God is sovereign, regardless of the tool He used, you are right. They were providentially protected."

" 'Tis a marvelous t'ing, bein' cared for by t'e Almighty." Siobhan clasped her paws and offered up an impassioned prayer of thanks, switching from English to Gaelic periodically.

Karl patted her arm and quoted, "Tá a fhios againn chomh maith go gcomhoibríonn Dia san uile ní leo siúd a bhfuil grá acu dó agus a bhfuil glaoite aige orthu de réir a chomhairle." (And we know that all things work together for good to them that love God, to them who are called according to His purpose.)

"Aye. T'at t'ey do." She looked fondly at her boys. "Let's finish supper, then." She frowned, her muzzle wrinkling up. "Whurr be Martin?"

Sean said, "He went upstairs, Mum."

"Upstairs?" She and Karl looked at each other, then he took off up the stairs himself.

. . .

Martin was already out of sight, half-a-klick down the road, and pushing the old sedan for all it was worth.

##

_** 7:10pm **_

It was after dusk when he got to the courthouse in the capitol, and although the regular business day was long over, half a dozen cars attested to the continuing efforts of those working late. He did have the presence of mind to turn off the lights and lock the door before heading inside, but he took the stairs three at a time, and practically ricocheted off the call button. He buzzed it every three or four seconds until one of the guards on duty answered.

. . .

Across the street, next to a small park, an older, nondescript coupe squatted in the shadows. Its occupant had sat up and watched with interest when the mouse ran up the stairs. He pulled a thin stack of photographs out of a pocket and used a penlight to examine one of them. Training a pair of binoculars on the courthouse door, he compared the profile of the mouse with the picture in his paw. He picked up a tight-beam two-way transmitter and toggled it. "Hey, Taylor."

The connection fuzzed briefly, then came in, "Yeah? Whatcha got?"

"Looks like I haven't been wasting my time after all. That scumbreed-lovin' mouse showed up. He's tryin' to get inside now."

"Can you get him?"

"I ain't touchin' him. I saw what he did to Bruce and Taco. You want him, you come get him. I'm just lettin' you know."

"Okay, chicken-shit. We'll be along in ten or so."

"Chicken-shit yourself. Hey, the guard just let him in!"

"Damn! He's inside?"

"Yeah. He might come back out though. Don't think he'd spend the night there, do ya?"

"Wouldn't think so, but you never know. We'll come anyway."

"Right. See ya in a few."

. . .

The door speaker distorted the guard's voice. "We're closed for the day, sir."

"But I have to get in. Me girl – erm, Miss Samantha Foxx is in there an' I need t' talk to her."

"Please state your name."

"Martin O'Musca."

There was a short pause. "Oh. You're the other one. Okay, come on in." A low buzzer sounded, and Martin pushed through the door.

The guard, clad in a flak jacket and carrying his riot helmet, met him in the hall. "I've got a fax for you from a Mr. Karl Luscus." He handed the mouse a folded paper. Martin opened it and read.

'_Of all the bone-headed maneuvers I've ever had the misfortune  
to witness, this one ranks in the top five.  
Don't you realize that the capitol is likely crawling with Knights?  
Do you not understand what kind of danger this puts you in?  
Have you no respect at all for your mother's feelings?  
She's worrying herself sick._

_You knew that Samantha was uninjured, and yet  
you went haring off to be with her anyway.  
I just hope you survive to read this note!_

_The guards have instructions to call me when you arrive.  
I will come get you.  
Do NOT drive back here by yourself. You STAY PUT until I get there.'_

_- - Karl_

Martin's paws were trembling slightly. Now that he stopped and thought about it, he was heartily ashamed of his rash actions. He slipped the note into a pocket and asked, "Well, since I be here a'ready, can I see the lass?"

"No, sir."

"What? Why not?"

"The Foxx family is to have no contact with anyone from the outside, per Mr. Foxx's request. He doesn't want to take the chance."

"But I'm th' one as fought th' purists what attacked her! Can't ye at least let her know I'm here?"

"I will pass any message you care to leave, sir, but I can't let you any farther into the building."

Martin sighed in defeat and asked for a piece of paper. He wrote Samantha a short note and passed it to the guard. "I'd be that much obliged if ye would see she gets this."

"Yes, sir. I'll send it to her right away. Would you care to have a seat here in the lobby?"

Martin surveyed the various seating possibilities and wasn't impressed. "Thank ye, but I think I'll just sit in me car until Mr. Luscus gets here."

"As you say, sir." The guard walked off and disappeared around a corner.

Martin went back outside. He stood for a few moments, breathing the cold air, watching the stars wheel by, and generally feeling sorry: for his mother, for the Foxxes and for himself. Finally, with a heavy sigh, he went over and sat in the car, leaned his head back against the rest, and closed his eyes.

. . .

"Samantha, I really think we should just stay here."

"But, Daddy! It's Martin! He came all this way, and now you won't let him see me? That's not fair!"

"Samantha, please try to . . . ."

"Daddy, I've _gotta_ see him! He needs to know that I'm, uh, that we're okay. Please? Pretty please? Just for a minute? I won't even go outside, I'll stay in the main hallway, it'll be real safe and . . ."

"Okay!" He gave a quick sigh of exasperation. _She'd wear down a statue._ "We'll both go up."

She jumped up and down and clapped. "Oh, thanks, Daddy! Thank you! I love you, Dad! You're the greatest!" And she kissed his cheek.

"Love you, too, sweetie. Just let me get my jacket. Don't know why they can't turn the heat up a little around here. That lobby is as drafty as a barn." He shrugged into a sweater and followed his ebullient daughter out to the stairs.

They trotted up and around to the guard's station, and Chris spoke to the two furs on duty. "Hi. We came up to see Martin O'Musca."

One of them raised a paw. "I'll take you, sir, he's waiting out front. A Mr. Karl Luscus is on his way to escort Mr. O'Musca back home. He'd been on the road for a while when I called. He should be here in about twenty minutes. Maybe fifteen, this time of night." The guard rose to accompany them to the lobby.

"Thanks." They followed the guard for the last hundred meters or so and came to the front hallway. "He said he was going to wait outside in his car. Can't really blame him for that, these seats don't even look like they were designed with furs in mind. They cramp my tail every time I use one." He trotted to the door. "Hang on a sec, I'll tell him you're here."

But when he got to the front door, he startled noticeably and whipped out his radio. "Code Red! Front lot!"

The red fox and the black looked at each other and raced to the door and skidded to a stop by the guard and then Samantha saw what he had seen and she screamed and screamed and screamed and Chris gathered her tightly into his arms and tried to block out the view.

Martin's car sat empty, rear tires flat, its windows smashed, the driver's side door hanging open on one hinge.


	5. Chapter 3 The Echoes of War Part A

**_Chapter Three – The Echoes of War – Part A_**

**_. . ._**

**_. . ._**

**_. . ._**

"**For I know the plans I have for you," declares the ****Lord****,  
**"**plans to prosper you and not to harm you,  
****plans to give you hope and a future."**

_** -Jeremiah 29:11**_

##

_** Tuesday 27 September 2016, 7:06am **_

Six representatives of the Mercy Chapel prayer group had convened the night before. Over the next twelve hours, the number of furs involved increased to over thirty, then fell back to a dozen when many had to leave to get ready for work. But they kept on praying, wherever they were, and as the word spread, the ranks continued to swell. By ten that morning, eight other churches in the area had prayer chains going in Martin's behalf. Siobhan had neither slept nor eaten, and her communication with the Almighty was most fervent. It was, she felt, the most important thing she could do for her son.

Karl, however, was not there with the group. Though a fur of strong faith, he had been used to solving his problems in a more direct manner for many, many years, and that habit dies hard. So he had gleaned as much information from the site of the abduction as he could, and had gone immediately to work trying to find his protégé. And between his Augmented senses and the tape from the security camera, he had quite a bit of information.

There had been eight furs: three foxes, two wolves, two mustelids (probably weasels, maybe martens), and a lion. Karl catalogued their scents for such future time as he might need them, and passed his information along to the police on the scene. Martin had been injured in the fight, but so had four of his attackers. One of the wolves had lost a fair bit of blood. Three of them had carried Martin across the lot to the small park, and had put him in one of at least two cars. Those cars had left the scene less than twenty minutes before Karl arrived.

He tracked the vehicles on foot, moving down the street at about thirty-five klicks, and not caring a whit who saw him. One of them had driven through a puddle, and the other over a patch of bare earth, so he had the tire tread patterns memorized. The tires on one of the cars were worn unevenly, and one of them (likely the same one) needed a tune-up badly. Karl could follow the smell of the combustion products of that engine, and was able to do so for several blocks, until the smells of the rest of the traffic of the day interfered too badly. But the car had headed generally west, and Karl had spent the balance of the night searching that end of town, trying to pick up the scent again.

The frustration he felt at not being able to "fix" the problem, not being able to help someone who meant a lot to him, festered in his psyche. This resembled another situation he had been in nearly a decade back that had ended _very_ badly, and the parallelism hit hard. He redoubled his efforts, increased his speed, eventually checking down every last road in the west half of Montpelier, but all he got for his troubles was the bitter taste of failure, which did nothing to assuage the raging hunger he had developed from staying in Augment so long. Finally, he gave up and sought out a diner for breakfast.

As he sat there, mechanically downing four jugs of orange juice with plate after plate after plate of eggs, biscuits, sausage, croissants, pancakes, hash browns, bacon, steak, and muffins (to the round-eyed amazement of the wait staff) he brooded over the things he might have done, and the chances missed.

If he had activated the Shop's tertiary defense system, Martin could not have left in the first place.

If he had been paying attention when Martin first went upstairs, he could have stopped the mouse.

If he had trusted his first instincts, and gone after him in the truck as soon as he realized he was missing, he would have been there when the Knights attacked, and Martin would still be safe.

If he had explicitly insisted that the guards keep him _inside_ once he got there. . . .

If he just had the time . . . .

If he'd thought . . . .

If only . . . .

'If' turned out to be a mighty big word.

He was past frustrated, more than worried, beyond rage. He had entered the hard, cold, sharp-edged mind of the true predator, and wanted nothing more at this point than something or someone he could _damage_. But that opportunity was denied him.

At present.

##

_** elsewhere **_

Slowly and more slowly, Martin dragged himself back to consciousness, but then wished he hadn't bothered.

He opened one eye. The other wouldn't open. His nose was clogged with clots of blood.

It was completely dark. He lay on a cold, cold concrete floor.

He could hear the low hum of voices and the occasional coarse laugh.

He attempted a small movement, and multiple lances of pain alerted him to specific problems.

His paws were behind his back, immobile, and throbbed abominably. Through the muddled haze of agony, he tried to figure out what was wrong with them, and finally concluded that they had been sewn together, palm-to-palm.

He couldn't move his head. The fur seemed to be stuck to the floor, possibly with his own dried blood, and he hadn't the strength to pull loose.

Simply taking a deep breath was misery. At least one rib was cracked, if not broken.

One of his legs was twisted under the other at what felt like an impossible angle, and it, too, ached unbearably. Broken, no doubt.

He rested for a long while, trying to recall what had happened.

He remembered the glass beside his head shattering. It was much louder than he would have thought.

He remembered taking a knife away from . . . a wolf? It had all happened so very quickly.

He remembered three of them dragging him out of the car.

He remembered the curses.

He remembered the club that hit him in the back, knocking him down.

He remembered slashing one of them with the knife. Across the leg? Then someone stomped on his paw.

He remembered trying to roll away, and many of them landing on him, and kicking and kicking and kicking.

He remembered the high-pitched laugh.

He remembered two of them holding his arms and the club coming toward his head.

And that's all he could remember.

He lay there, silent, in the oppressive, freezing darkness, for many long minutes, trying to will away the pain. Karl had told him that he would eventually be able to achieve some mastery over the signals and responses of his nervous system, but he had only really been studying for two and a half years, and he wasn't there yet. Holding as still as possible was the best remedy he could find for the haunting, insistent pain.

After a while, he began praying, and passed slowly into a deep sleep.

##

_** 7:15am **_

The DA hadn't slept well, and it showed. Usually an early riser, his fitful night had compelled him to sleep through his alarm, and if his phone hadn't rung at six thirty he might have been there yet.

But that blasted Evans character had _insisted_ they meet before the inquest. As if he hadn't gone over every possible nuance, each remotely conceivable outcome. He had the purists cold and he knew it. His long face wrinkled up more than usual when he spotted the cat pacing in front of the conference room door.

Lee saw him and smiled. "Good morning, Adam!"

"How can you be so chipper?" he grumbled. "And by the way, thanks for waking me up."

"Bad night?"

The canine nodded. "Must have come awake a dozen times. I'm _sure_ we have all the bases covered, but this is a huge, landmark case, and my stupid subconscious won't quit worrying me." He executed a huge yawn, scratched his lower back, unlocked the conference room, and asked, "So what is so important that we have to meet about it secretly?"

"Let's get in here first."

When they were secure and seated, Lee leaned across the table and said, "I have a small experiment to propose."

"I'm listening."

"As far as the assassin knows, the Foxxes are dead, right?"

"Yes. We didn't want to give any impression one way or another. All anyone has been able to find out is that the room was rented by the state entertainment service, as you doubtless heard on the late news."

"And they came here directly from the motel, and you got them ensconced in the armory?"

"Correct. Mr. Foxx insisted on keeping everything as secret as possible. Only four other furs even know they're here. I spoke with the AG myself."

"But as far as the public knows, no one was killed, right?"

"Right."

"And nofur who wasn't directly involved with protecting them even knew the Foxxes were in that room in the first place, right?"

"Right."

"_And_, no one who wasn't connected with the assassin could possibly have any inkling that the Foxxes were even in danger, right?"

". . . . Right. Where are you going with this?"

"Just this, Mr. Redd." He resettled himself, leaning back in his chair, and used one index finger to tap the table for emphasis. "If the Knights think they got the Foxxes, and we don't let on otherwise right up front, the legal team may give something away when Sabrina and her kids show up to testify."

The solemn eyes regarded him soberly for a few moments. "Are you suggesting that the counsel for the defense is in cahoots with an assassin? That's a very dangerous statement. It's true that I don't have a very high regard for Scrimmling, Verrid & Stoat, but to imply . . . ."

"I don't know about their being personally cozy with the hit fur. That's not what I'm implying, not at all. But I'll bet you a doughnut for breakfast they have inside information. And I think this might be one way to help find out."

"I don't know. Unless the lawyer jumps up and yells, 'But we had her killed!' nothing we observe would be admissible in court."

"I understand that. And I don't think that's really the point, although it sure would be nice if he did blurt something out. Nevertheless, any intelligence we can gain about their internal structure could be helpful. It won't cost us anything to play our cards close to the chest."

The hound nodded. "That's true enough." He didn't have to think about it much more. "Okay. Let's give it a try and see what happens."

##

_** 8:54am **_

A two-lawyer team represented each of the three sets of purist defendants, led and coordinated by Chief Counsel Isaiah Verrid. The teams shared notes and planned common lines of defense, but each was really only _responsible_ for that particular group. This arrangement had been made plain the previous day.

It was for this reason, primarily, that Lee had requested that the Foxxes remain sequestered at the beginning of the inquest this day. Although Martin's kidnapping was common knowledge by the next morning, the rocket attack on the motel the evening before had been the main headline in all the news outlets. And, as he had confirmed with the DA, the identities of those who had occupied the room had been tightly concealed from the reporters. Rumors abounded in the media that it was a mob hit, or another example of the growing force of terrorism in the nation, or even a private dispute gone horribly wrong. But no one knew any particulars, and no official actually came out and _admitted_ that anyfur had been killed.

Many assumed the worst for Martin, which left only the Foxx family as witnesses to the actual fight. Elly Tabb had been hiding in the kitchen and Tom Fellian had shown up after it was essentially over.

So it was with extreme, but well-concealed, satisfaction that Lee observed the counsel for the five furs who had attacked Martin and Samantha.

Only one of the pair of lawyers was present, and he was kicked back, arms behind his head, feet on the table, a sickening smirk on his pudgy face. Lee had never seen a more self-assured creature than that stoat. He obviously had not a care in the world. "_Yet_," Lee said to himself. He, Debbye, and Cinnamon made a tight little group at their table, and from a distance one might get the impression that they were frightened. Lee certainly hoped so.

The bailiff again called, "All rise!" as the judge climbed up to the bench. The aged hare sat, followed by everyone else. "This court is now in session, the Honorable Race Corpin presiding."

The judge again explained that this was only the inquest, not the trial, and outlined how the various statements would be made and judged.

Lee watched the stoat carefully as the first witness was called.

"The state calls Samantha Foxx to the stand."

The lawyer's muzzle dropped open. He spun around in his chair, feet sliding off the table to slap the floor. Hackles rising straight from his neck, his eyes bugged distressingly as he tracked Samantha's measured pace from the back of the chamber to the chair beside the bench. His grip on the edge of the table was so tight that Lee heard at least one knuckle crack. His mouth worked up and down a few times. Lee thought he was saying, "But she's . . . But she's . . ." Then the stoat went into a huddle with the other five lawyers.

Lee glanced over at the district attorney. The hound had been watching as well, and gave Lee a short nod, as his eyes narrowed dangerously.

The Maine Coon cat felt more than somewhat vindicated, and relaxed a tiny bit for the first time in many, many hours.

##

_** 10:45am **_

Karl had gone back to get the remaining O'Musca family members, transferring them from his Shop to the armory in the capitol that morning. The fierce expression on his face had frightened the boys, but Siobhan was too distracted to notice. He got them set up alongside everyone else, left a secure-channel number where he could be reached in case they heard anything, and headed back to his shop.

When he arrived, he went straight to the sub-basement, and looked around the large room, thinking about the various items he would likely need. The hold he had on his mental discipline had been tenuous for several hours, and was being strained constantly by his knowledge of what could be happening to Martin that very minute. He kept having to pull himself back from the brink of battle-mind. He found this situation intolerable, but knew he could _not_ let himself go. Not until he had acquired a viable target.

And most of what he had been blessed with in the way of enlightenment, inner peace, and self-control over the last three years was getting dangerously close to dissolution.

Old habits do, indeed, die hard.

He got a large, steel case off a shelf, laid it on the worktable at one end of the room, and opened it. Various pieces of black, shaped, closed-cell foam lay in a large drum beside the table for holding securely those things he chose to bring. He set some of them on the table around the case, then started his collection.

_Percussion grenades, eh, probably need a dozen. A-P paw-mortars, six ought to do. Proximity mines? Yeah, two of those, one medium-strength and one high-strength. Two heat bombs, too. Better make it ten of the Somnil bombs. Four Webbers? Nah, take eight, they're small and light. Eight neuroshock warheads. Make it five magnesium flares. And four of the projectile-type E-M nullifiers. Plus a few dozen remote activation circuits, motion sensors, and infrared detectors._

Nodding to himself, he arranged the ordinance in the case, then went over to another shelf. Here he kept his supply of esoteric toxins. Choosing a wide variety of different vials, he loaded some of them into an odd-looking gatling pistol. It went into a small holster under his left arm. The rest of them he tucked into a belt made for that purpose.

Another storage bank yielded a large, very massive, beryllium-bronze pistol with a long, thick barrel and what looked like a bulky battery pack depending from the handle. Actually a highly-modified gauss rifle, it fired tiny spheres of an osmium-uranium alloy that had a lubricious, ferro-magnetic coating. The magazine held sixteen thousand of the spheres, a necessity given the fire rate of eight thousand per minute. The weapon had a muzzle velocity of fifty-five hundred meters per second, and even Karl had to be well-braced to fire it with any degree of accuracy. But at close range, its effects were devastating. No portable armor extant could withstand it for more than a few seconds. The ultimate in anti-personnel weaponry, neither flesh nor bone offered its hypersonic stream any more resistance than an equivalent volume of hard vacuum. He had named it 'Sleet'.

Padding over to the far side of the room, he stopped in front of a small, glass case containing a two-hook rack on which reclined a slender rod about twenty centimeters long. Fifteen centimeters of red anodizing denoted the safe section of the object when it was activated. The rest of it was matte black. Lifting off the top of the case, he picked up the rod. He held it in his right paw, staring at it, as one of the many memories associated with the article surfaced.

… _Marla stood silently in the doorway for several seconds, then cleared her throat to get his attention._

_He didn't turn around, but said, "I heard you already. I'm not deaf. I'm just ignoring you."_

"_Beorn, please. Please look at me."_

_She managed not to flinch under the burning gaze he directed her way. "It was supposed to be a tool for __you__ to use, not one used __against__ you."_

"_Hell of a lot of good that does Phoebe."_

A tear worked its way out of her eye, to be hurriedly wiped away. "I know. I – I miss her, too."

"_YOU __miss __her? __**YOU**__ miss her?"_

_Marla walked over and sank to her knees beside his chair, not bothering to try to hide her emotion any longer. "Beorn, you. . ." She had to sniff and wipe her nose before regaining some measure of control. "You have a knife." It was not a question._

"_What of it?"_

"_Draw it, please."_

"_No."_

"_Why not?"_

"_I never draw my blades unless I intend to draw blood."_

_She tilted her head back, exposing the creamy fur of her throat. "Then draw it."_

_He gazed at the femme leopard's racked expression for long moments, his face crumpling a little. "Mar, don't do that. It's . . . it's all right. I know it's not your . . . not really your fault."_

_She lowered her chin and placed a shaky paw on his knee. "Maybe not all of it. But I should have guessed something was up when they wouldn't let me do the demonstration for the team personally. That much of it __is__ my fault."_

_He glanced away from her, a bleak darkness in his eyes. "When I find out where Colonel Prosyonni went when he absquatulated, it will be a moot point."_

_She just nodded, as her big, silent tears continued to fall._

_He sighed, long and deeply. "Mar, I don't know how to live any more. I don't feel like a whole furson." He covered her paw with his. "Just being conscious hurts more than I ever thought anything could."_

"_Be – Beorn?"_

_He met her questioning gaze._

_She reached into her lab coat and pulled out the scrambler._

_A pale redness lit behind his eyes at the sight of the thin rod. "Why do you have that?" His voice was barely audible._

"_This isn't that one. This is my latest prototype. It's got an intensity adjustment, and it's broad-spectrum, doesn't have to be tuned to an individual. Works on any creature with a central nervous system." Her own eyes hardened. "And although the dear Colonel's actions bespeak a place on the lowest rung of the evolutionary ladder, I'm pretty sure it will work on him, too."_

_His furrowed brow prompted her to say, "This one is for you. For when you find him." She passed him the object and put a paw on one shoulder. "And I really want you to find him, Beorn." …_

He snapped back to the here-and-now, muttering, "Thanks, Marla. I owe you one." He had, in fact, finally been able to locate that piece of furry scum, and carry out her wish.

He added the rod to the contents of the steel case and snapped it shut. Then he got on his computer, opened several of the clandestine snoops he had installed, and started looking for clues.

##


	6. Chapter 3 The Echoes of War Part B

**_Chapter Seventeen – The Echoes of War – Part B_**

##

_** Tuesday 27 September 2016, 12:40pm **_

The inquest had gone about the way Lee expected it would. Each of them had given his or her testimony concerning the events of July eighth, September fourteenth, and September eighteenth. The prosecuting attorney had presented the massive evidence linking each of the defendants to the Knights of the Pure Strain. And the counsel for the defense had objected to everything, and been overruled each time.

Samantha had remained erect, very still, and dry-eyed, her back not touching the witness chair. Her testimony had been given in clipped, sparse tones, and the look of intense hatred on her face gave even the most callous of the Knights to pause. Teenage emotions ride very close to the surface.

Daren and Sabrina had been more elaborate, giving lots of detail and personal impressions of the attack.

Toby Scrugg's statement was read, as he was not yet ambulatory, and it matched that of the Foxxes'.

The head of the Montpelier police force's Violent Crime unit, a Lieutenant Fale, had investigated the attack on the Evanses in the _Continental's_ parking lot, and turned in a thorough report.

Lee and Debbye each gave a concise synopsis of the particulars of that night, pointing out which of the defendants had jumped them. Lee inquired solicitously about the injuries of the wolf and panther who remained hospitalized, but got no response (unsurprisingly) from the legal team. Then they described the assault at the Park, and what had followed, and how Debbye had been shot and two of the Knights came to lose their lives. It was noted for the record that of the twelve Knights that survived that attack, two were still recovering under medical care.

Counsel for the defense tried to paint the incident as just a big misunderstanding, and the Evanses as dangerous martial-arts assassins. But make no mistake, the judge was having _none_ of that noise.

Sergeant Paul Fellis gave his summation of that attack, which, although very spare and succinct, managed to be more accusatory than any of the others. He had been especially 'exercised' by Emily's gunshot wound.

Karl was not present. The district attorney explained that he was too distraught over his apprentice's kidnapping to give testimony at the moment, but would give a formal statement later, and would testify later at the trial.

The judge set a trial date of Wednesday, October nineteenth, and declaring the defendants to be an active threat to the community at large, he declined to set bail. They would be held in maximum security, given that eight of them had outstanding warrants in other states, one jailbreak attempt had already been made, Martin had been abducted, and the Foxxes targeted by an assassin.

After the purists were filed back out to their cells, the group of friends was escorted to the judge's chamber for lunch. But although the wheels of justice seemed to be turning in their favor, no one felt like celebrating. Cinnamon, Chris, and Sabrina sat despondently at the conference table in the judge's chamber, neither talking nor eating the generous lunch provided. The Evanses chose one of the couches. Debbye took Lee's paw and leaned her head over onto his shoulder, her eyes wet. Daren had decided that being in denial would have to work for him for the present, and occupied himself with keeping Emily amused by helping her play games with her food. Samantha sat by herself in a corner, back straight, paws folded in her lap, staring across the room, looking but not seeing. Though she had cried through most of the night, the emotional release had failed to ease the tight knot of despair in her gut. Her parents feared for her. She'd never been through anything this traumatic before, and her cold, withdrawn demeanor, shutting out them and everyone else, was a radical departure from her normal, bouncy self.

Judge Corpin came in and stopped by the door, surveying the gloomy crowd, and sighed. "I imagine the long faces stem from your friend's abduction."

He got no immediate answer, but most of them looked his way.

"I truly wish I could give you some assurance for Mr. O'Musca's safety, but I dare not. I have had the unpleasant duty of presiding over many cases involving species purists, and in my experience those who fall afoul of their anger rarely live. I had my fill of that sort of thing as a circuit court judge in Texas in the 1990's, and I have noticed lately where something similar seems to be occurring in the Midwest." He moved slowly over to a chair at the table and sat. Picking up a bunch of grapes, he started plucking them off and eating them one by one.

Lee spoke up. "I can't let myself believe that there is no hope at all. We will look for him. And we will pray for him."

The judge nodded. "An excellent suggestion. Divine intervention would be most welcome." He ate another grape. "At this time, I feel that may be the only hope that young fur has."

A strangled sob from the corner brought everyone's gaze to Samantha. She slid off her chair into a heap on the floor, pounding it with one fist. Chris and Sabrina ran over to her and held her as the grief and fear found an outlet.

Lee came up and said, "Why don't you guys go on back to your rooms? I'm sure Sam here needs some sleep. Maybe if you all cuddle up, she'll feel safer and she can get some."

Sabrina nodded. "That's a good idea. Chris, can you handle her?"

He nodded as he picked up his daughter. "She's not heavy." And they went to find some secure transportation to the armory.

Emily went over to her mother and tugged on her skirt. "Mommy, S'mamfa's cryin'."

"Yes, honey, she is. She's sad because her friend Martin might – might be hurt." Cinnamon swallowed hard, twice.

"She gonna be okay?"

She gathered her daughter in a close embrace. "I hope so, honey. I really hope so."

Daren came over then, and said, "Hey, Squirt, they got some Click-em Blocks over here. You wanna see what we can build?"

"Okay." She slid off her mother's lap and followed the skunk to the low table by the window.

Her voice low, Cinnamon said, "I can't stand this. If I don't talk to somebody, I'm gonna bust. Think I'll give Wendy a buzz, at least let her know what happened at the inquest."

"Mind if I tag along?" asked Debbye. "I haven't talked with her in a while, and I really would like to. If you don't have anything really personal to discuss, that is."

"Nah. Come on. We could both use some cheering up." And they went to find a phone.

Wendy had a brisket roasting in one oven, a shrimp casserole in the second, and a chocolate-caramel-pecan pie in the third. A large pot of chicken broth was on the range, and would be simmering soon. She and Ellen were chopping onions and peeling potatoes, respectively, since the onion fumes really bothered the mink.

"So Rob didn't take it too well, I gather?"

"Nope. Poor guy. Eh, he's a decent friend, he's fun in the sack, and he's a pretty good dancer, but come on! I am _not_ ready for marriage. Not with anyone. Hell, I don't even really know what I want out of life for _myself_. I'm sure not gonna get into a life-long commitment with somefur when I don't know what I truly want from him. I mean, I haven't even finished growing up yet!"

"Good girl. Y'know, the way I see it, that shows a lot of maturity in itself, making that decision."

"Huh." She shrugged. "Maybe so. Still, I don't think . . ."

The phone rang, and Wendy stepped over to answer it, wiping her paws on her apron. "Hello?" She turned to look at Ellen, her smile growing. "Oh, sure! Hey, let me put you on 'speaker'. I know Ellen wants to hear all about it, too, and I'm trying to get ready for the supper crowd." She pressed a button on the face of the unit and hung the pawset back up. "Can you hear me okay?"

"Loud and clear," came Cinnamon's voice. "I've got Debbye here with me, too."

She chimed in, "Hi, Wendy! Hi, Ellen!"

Cinnamon continued after the pair on the other end responded. "Thought you'd be interested to know how the inquest went."

"I'm all ears."

"Well, to start at the end, the judge set the trial for October nineteenth. Won't be any bail, because he says they're a threat to the community, which suits me. Buncha jerks."

"Good for him. I'm glad you got a judge who wasn't asleep at the wheel."

"Yeah, me too. So, anyhow, we all gave our statements, all of us that were there, and we told it just like it was. They didn't make Emily get on the stand, but Daren and Samantha did, and they did real good. And Lee even asked how the purebreds in the hospital were! I tell ya, that cat's got a twisted sense of humor."

"So they had all the adults testify?"

"Yep, sure did. Except Karl, 'cause he wasn't there."

"Huh? Why not?"

"He's out lookin' for Martin, I think."

"Looking for Martin?"

"Uh-huh."

"Why?"

". . . . . . . . . Why, what?"

"Why is he looking for Martin? Where'd Martin go?"

"Uh . . . you mean you don't _know_?"

"Don't know what?"

"About Martin!"

Wendy gave a short sigh. "Cinnamon, I hate guessing games. _What_ is going on with Martin?"

"He got kidnapped."

"_**WHAT?"**_

"Girl, don't you watch the news?"

Debbye added, "It's been all over the TV!"

Wendy looked at Ellen, whose eyes were very round. "Have you heard anything about this?"

The mink shook her head. "No. I haven't listened to the radio either."

"Ellen slept over last night so we could get an early start, and we've just had the holodisc player going all day. When was he kidnapped?"

"Last night," she replied. "Around seven-thirty, I think."

Debbye exclaimed, "Hey, wait a minute! If you don't know about Martin, you probably don't know about that rocket attack on the Foxxes, either."

The mink and vixen looked at each other in shock. _**"ROCKET ATTACK?"**_

"Yeah, 'bout suppertime yesterday. Their motel room got blown to smithereens."

"Holy shit! Are they okay?"

"Yep. Chris got some kind of premonition or something, and they left _right_ before it happened."

Ellen said, "A what? Premonition?"

"Yeah," said Cinnamon. "Said he heard voices."

"From where?"

"He doesn't know. It's kinda spooky if you ask me."

Ellen was quite nonplussed. "Wow. That is too weird."

Wendy had a sudden thought. "Did he say what these voices sounded like?"

"No. Just that he was told to run away. And he got some kind of image of his family lying around dead. Like I said, real spooky."

"Uh-huh." Wendy had a strong suspicion about the origin of the 'voice'. "Well. I guess that message I sent to the Attorney General was kind of superfluous, then, huh?"

"What message?"

It was Wendy's turn to be confused. ". . . . . The one I sent him yesterday afternoon. I talked to his secretary and she told me she'd get it to him inside the hour. Did you not hear anything from him?"

"Not a peep," said Debbye. "Nope. Nothing," added Cinnamon.

"Huh. That's odd."

"Well," said Cinnamon, "I'll ask Mikey about it the next time I see him."

". . . Mikey?"

"Umm . . . yeah. You know. The Attorney General?"

"_Attorney General?_ And you call him Mikey? What gives?"

"Well, it's like . . . Um, y'know, he's, well . . . See, each of us had to give a statement, and when it was, like, my turn and I was all done we just sorta, y'know, kept talking, and he's, like, really nice. He's a lot of fun to hang with."

Debbye leaned closer to the phone, "You should see his face whenever she shows up. He's got a smile that just won't quit."

Wendy was mildly shocked. "Cinnamon! The man's gotta be in his fifties, at least!"

"He'll be fifty-four next month. So what? Just 'cause he's twice my age doesn't mean we can't have anything in common. It so happens he does sculpture as a hobby, and he knows my work and thinks it's great, and he knows tons and tons about art history, and . . . and . . . and why am I telling you this? It's not like it's any of your business!"

"Oops. You're right. I'm sorry, Cinnamon. That wasn't very tactful of me, was it?"

"Not really, no."

"Sorry! Sorry!" She threw up her paws and gave Ellen a pained look. "I'm always coming down on that girl, and I don't know why."

Ellen asked, "Cinnamon? Do they know who took Martin? I mean did they leave a ransom note or anything?"

"Unh-uh. See, he drove over to the courthouse in Montpelier to see Samantha when he found out about the rocket, and while he was waitin' outside, a bunch of furs jumped him. Tore his car up bad, and Karl says he got hurt, too."

Wendy looked ill. "That's horrible! That poor boy! Oh, _shit!_ I bet the purists did it!" She covered her eyes briefly and then looked back at the phone. "Cinnamon, they'll kill him! I know they will! Oh, man, I hope Karl can find them."

"Oh, he'll find them. We're just praying that he can find them _before_ . . . well, you know."

Ellen put a paw on Wendy's shoulder, which the vixen covered with her own. "Cinnamon?"

"Yeah?"

"Thanks for calling."

"You're welcome, I guess. I didn't mean to be the bearer of bad news, but you did need to know."

"I know. I – guess I just don't know how to react yet, that's all."

"Right. Well, I'll let you get back to doing whatever it is you were doing. See you later."

"Okay. 'Bye." And Wendy pushed the button to terminate the call.

"Wendy?"

The vixen turned to her friend and employee.

"Do you _really_ think they'll kill him?"

Wendy nodded. "That message I told Cinnamon about? It was the fox again."

"The feral?"

"Yes. He told me yesterday afternoon that the purists were hunting. Listed off the specific species, and it matched their group perfectly." She frowned. "I _would_ like to know why that secretary never delivered my message, though.

. . .

The veins stood out on Red Jack's forehead as he screamed into his PA, "**I want my money back ****NOW****!**"

"Screw you. You told me to blow up the motel room. I blew up the motel room. None of my lookout if you gave me bad information."

"I hired you to off 'em! You were s'posed to kill two skunks and a fox. You didn't. They testified. I want my eighty grand BACK!"

"And furs in hell want ice water."

"I'll see YOU in hell, you bastard!"

"More than likely." And he broke the connection.

"_**AAAAAAHHHRRRRRRRRRHHHH!**_**"** Jack stomped the ground several times with both feet, and made to throw his PA down as well, but stopped himself before completing the motion. He snapped it shut and shoved it into one of his pockets.

_I'll get that little midget rat-bastard if it's the last act._ He looked around the clearing at the other furs staring his way. "What the fuck do you assholes want? Got nothin' better to do?" The rest of them quickly became deeply interested in other things.

"Simms! Get your sorry ass out here!"

The little ferret popped his head out of one of the tents. "Um, yes sir, Mr. Damien, sir? What can I…"

"Get the mouse. I want him here in two hours. Got it?"

"Yes, sir. Get the mouse, sir."

Red Jack went back to his tent, muttering under his breath.

##

_** 2:20pm **_

Karl had parked his ATV well within the fringe of wood southeast of Ash Creek Inn, sent up the short-range, high-definition sensor dish, and deployed the camouflage net. Wendy's minivan and Ellen's old Prius were still the only vehicles in evidence beside the Inn. The scanner display had the same message it had shown for the last twenty minutes:

} } TARGET SEARCH: ACTIVE. { {

It had taken him most of an hour to sift through the various e-mail trails and wireless taps, but he had come up with a solid lead. Only, it hadn't led him exactly where he had anticipated . . . . . .

_Hey, Jake, we just got word from upstairs about that leak to the AG._

_What's the move?_

_Go pay a little visit to the one responsible. Name's Wendy Wylde. Lives out in the boonies, place called Ash Creek about eight clicks north of New Haven. Find out what she knows, any way you have to._

_I'm on it. Me and Willie will be there and back before supper. . . . . ._

A corner of Karl's mind was trying to be optimistic. At least this way he could kill two birds with one stone: protect Wendy and (hopefully) find Martin. He had calculated, accurately, how long he would have to get into position. His quarry should be checking in some time in the next ten minutes.

And the red hue behind his eyes was much more intense than it had been earlier.

} } TARGET ACQUISITION: CONFIRMED. { {

A dark blue, late model pickup truck pulled slowly into the long drive, and stopped a few meters from the road. Karl Augmented his vision and studied them: bobcat and coyote, staring at the house and talking with each other. The canine in the passenger seat held up a pistol, checked the magazine, and dropped it back out of sight.

} } MISSILE LOCK: AFFIRMATIVE. { {

The truck started up again, moving slowly.

Karl pressed a firing stud.

The micro-missile reached its objective approximately six-tenths of a second later, and amid a small, short-lived shower of sparks, the truck stopped.

Karl checked his readouts: two life signs in the house, two in the truck, and no others within eight hundred meters.

} } TARGET DEACTIVATED. { {

Karl retracted the sensor dish, jettisoned the net, and sped across the lawn to the truck. He spun the ATV through a one-eighty, stopped behind the pickup and hopped out, ran to the driver's side and pulled the semiconscious feline, none too gently, out onto the grass. He gave the cat a small injection in his spine, between the fourth and fifth cervical vertebrae, to eliminate any threat of resistance, and another one in the side of his neck, jarring him abruptly to full awareness.

The bobcat quickly decided it wasn't the most pleasant experience of his recent memory.

He could move his head. He could speak (verily, he could scream). He could not, however, communicate with any of the voluntary muscles in his limbs. And he hurt all over. A lot.

Karl got his attention. "You have been temporarily paralyzed. If I administer the antidote within the next forty hours, you will regain the use of your limbs. Otherwise, you will be quadriplegic. Now. You will answer my questions. If I don't like the answers, I will remove body parts until I do like them. Do we understand each other?"

"Fuck you!"

Karl calmly but quickly picked up the cat's left arm, positioned it in front of his face, and popped his index finger off, tossing it away.

"AIIIHHRRHHH! No! I'll talk! AAAIHH! Please, don't! Anything!"

"Where is the mouse?"

"Hu . . . Whe . . . What – what mouse?"

He lost another finger. His screams intensified.

Karl's deadpan expression never wavered. He could have been reading the local legal notices for all the emotion he showed. "You know, broken bones can heal, but once you lose a part, it's gone. And frankly, prosthetic limbs are not all that comfortable. Would you like to tell me where the mouse is, or shall I start on your other paw?"

Between ragged gasps, the cat stuttered, "He's – he's – he's with – with Red Jack."

"Red Jack. That would be John Damien, the High Lord Knight?"

"Ye – yeah. It's him. Please don't – don't . . ."

"And where is Mr. Damien?"

"I – I – I don't know." He screamed again when his left knee shattered.

"I feel confident that we can come to a meeting of the minds on this. I want the whole story, not bits and pieces."

Over the next three minutes, Karl wrenched as much information from the cat as that unfortunate wight could remember. And it didn't even cost him any more appendages.

Karl administered the antidote, tossed the whimpering creature back into the pickup, used the scrambler on both of them, welded the truck's doors shut with a small induction torch, and slapped a magnetic tow on its frame behind the bumper. He pulled the truck well back into the trees, out of sight, and covered it with a camo-net. Then he raced off toward Montpelier.

##

_** 3:50pm **_

All of the team members of Omicron Platoon were trained to some extent in the specialties of the others, so Karl was hardly a novice when it came to surveillance. On this occasion, however, he did wish that Yvonne could have been here to help. The things that hare could do with tight-beam radar bordered on the supernatural.

He got by, though.

Urban venues were typically a little easier, if anything, because there were so many places from which to snoop. He had set up his recon position in a storeroom on the top floor of an adjacent building, and was tuning the tightscan to render the target's interior in layers. He started it up and watched for the next minute as two hundred slices sped by on the monitor. He didn't need any image-assembly software to put it together for him, since he could do it just as quickly and accurately in his head.

He re-tuned the focus to the rear half of the second floor, and shot another series.

_Excellent. Five guards, nothing but small arms. And it looks like a conference of some sort is going on._

He chose several items from the steel case and made his way down to the ground floor. This one would have to be a silent infiltration. There was an insurance company on the third floor, a day-care on the ground floor, and what looked like a talent agency adjacent to the Knights' headquarters.

It wouldn't do to kill or injure any of the bystanders: they might scream and alert the Knights.

Troubling things, old habits.

##

_** 4:04pm **_

Bert Wezzil was bored off his tail. Nothing ever happened on guard duty. The bigwigs always picked some dump for temp-HQ, and this moldy pile of bricks fit right in. He never got the chance to be in on any of the kills. Crap, for that matter, he never even knew what was going down! Just sit in the chair or pace the hall or try to have a semi-rational conversation with that lump, Jed. Good luck there. The idiot didn't even know any card games, if you can believe it. Bert had snuck in a paw-held gaming station once, and been raked over good for it, so that was out, too. They didn't mind too much if he read, but although he considered himself of above-average intelligence, he didn't really read for recreation. And about every third or fourth trip (this being one of those trips) they were short-pawed and worked twelve-hour shifts.

The pay was decent, but the job _really_ sucked.

This afternoon he was stationed in front of the door, and Jed had the position between the stairs and the elevator, the sawed-off across his knees. Bert had his back leaning against the room door, taking a quick smoke. At least they didn't mind that.

Jed made a small noise, like a snore, enough to get his attention.

"What?"

No answer. Bert peered down the hall and sighed in exasperation. Jed looked like he'd fallen asleep.

"Wake up, you moron! They catch you sleeping, it'll be your ass."

No answer. Again.

Bert tried not to stomp too hard as he stalked down to the elevator. He reached out a paw to shake Jed awake, but then something touched his neck, and lightning replaced the blood throughout his frame, the universe condensing to a flashing black-and-gray point of supreme agony. He pitched over onto his face and lay there, twitching.

Karl sprinted to the door and leaned his head against it, Augmenting his hearing.

". . . find out about it till then?"

"No, I still think it was stupid. I mean, the _governor's_ daughter? You leave your brain home yesterday?"

"But, Cyril, we got us a wide power base in Oregon. Yeah, he's popular, but with his precious little girl missing, you can bet he won't be thinkin' about re-election."

"So where is she now?"

"Stashed up in the hills, about six clicks south of Mount Hood."

"Is she all right?"

"The boys had some fun with her first, but she's still in one piece, if that's what you mean."

"Well, just hang on to her for right now. Don't do anything _else_ stupid."

"Guess that means the long-pig-pickin' is off."

"Duh. Don't you have anybody else who could stand in for the main course?"

Karl had all the occupants placed. He pulled out the scrambler, making sure it was still set to the lowest of its three power levels, took a step back, and then knocked the door open.

Two of the three guards went down in the first half-second. The third guard held a sawed-off and had time for one shot, but missed Karl, pegging one of the two furs on the couch against the wall before succumbing to the scrambler's neural overload. Four furs sat around the small table, where the conference phone was placed. Karl stunned two of them while they were rising, and planted a foot in the chest of the third while using his opposite paw to knock the fourth one tail-over muzzle in the direction of the couch. His inert form collided with the uninjured fur that had tried to stand up. Karl was over him in an instant, and the scrambler descended again.

It had taken just under four seconds to secure the room.

"Cyril? What the hell was that? Cyril? You still there? Cyril?"

Karl pulled a small, flat object from a pocket and plugged it into one of the jack outlets on the conference phone.

"Dammit, Cyril, answer me! What are you trying to pull?"

The device performed its electronic magic, and a few seconds later the area code and number of the caller's phone appeared on the small display.

"Cyril? Cyril! What? No, but me and Quade …"

The line went dead. Karl tapped the number into his PA's search base, and came up with an optometrist's shop in Wilsonville.

Karl logged the information, along with what he had heard about the goings-on in Oregon, into his PA for later transmission to the feds. Now, though, he needed information of his own. He got the weasel he had kicked and laid him out on the couch, administering the two highly classified drugs. The weasel's eyes flew open in shock and pain.

"State your name."

He turned to the voice, and then focused on Karl's face and scowled. "I ain't tellin' you shit."

Karl held the weasel's muzzle shut and tore off one of his ears. That fur's eyes bugged as he tried to scream.

"State your name."

He whimpered, "Cyr – Cyril Compton . . . Mayez." His expression radiated dread. He realized this huge fur would kill him without hesitation if he screwed up.

"Where is John Damien?"

"How – how do you know … no! Please! He's west of here! Out in the woods!"

"Where, _precisely_?"

The weasel was crying freely. "I don't know!" He continued in a rush when Karl grabbed his arm. "He always contacts us! Really! All we know is, he's between here and the state line! He does it on purpose so nofur can rat him out! You gotta believe me!"

Karl did. He knew the bald, unvarnished, terrified truth when he heard it.

He pushed Mr. Mayez off onto the floor and replaced him with the Russian Blue cat he had slapped. He already knew that the ones he had scrambled wouldn't be any use to anyone for two or three days, and bedridden for a week after that, until their neural networks stopped firing randomly. The most annoying side effect was the nauseating disorientation. The scrambler affected every cell in the nervous system, including the semicircular canals, and messed up one's balance and proprioceptive sense as well. When the weapon was set at position two, the victim didn't wake up for seven to ten days, and might not ever fully recover. On full strength, he just didn't wake up.

He brought the cat around and said, "State your name. . . ."

##

_** 5:30pm **_

Karl pulled out another PowerBar and ate it absently.

After squeezing as much information as he could from the pair of purists, he had given them the paralysis antidote, then scrambled them. He hadn't been sure he would get back to them before the drug took permanent effect. He had lobbed the guards into the room, sealed the door, and taken off to the west, heading for the heavily wooded areas. He already had any number of maps of the state memorized, so he had a decent idea of the type of place he was looking for. The problem was that there were close to two hundred such possible locations, and they were hardly all grouped together in a bunch.

But he had a wide array of highly sophisticated sensory equipment, and an insurmountable determination. He was driving past or through all of the different places he felt were good possibilities, checking for unusual groupings of furs, and had eliminated five of them so far. He _would_ find and save Martin.

Or avenge him.

##


	7. Chapter 4 Confirmations&Questions Part A

**_Chapter Eighteen – Confirmations and Questions – Part A_**

**_. . ._**

**_. . ._**

**_. . ._**

**If only there were evil people somewhere insidiously committing evil deeds**

**and it were necessary only to separate them from **

**the rest of us and destroy them. **

**But the line dividing good and evil **

**cuts through the heart of every living soul. **

**And who is willing to destroy a piece of his own heart?**

_-Alexander Solzhenitsyn_

##

_** Tuesday 27 September 2016, 6:10pm **_

A tall, very sturdy gray wolf squatted by his small fire as he used a paper towel to wipe out the last of the dishes from supper, then pitched it into the flames along with the others. The near-frictionless surfaces on his plates, bowls and utensils made backwoods clean-ups ridiculously easy, and despite his current preference for living in the wild, he did enjoy certain of the aspects of modern technology. His self-pitching tent, and the heatless light sources he used as opposed to the more traditional lanterns attested to that.

Of course, these items were not cheap. But Conner von Trapp lived very simply most of the time, and when he worked he made good money. His services as a hunting guide were very much in demand. He and his partner need only make it known that they were available, and steady work found them.

His partner, Lin, had gone out for a stroll, as was his wont in the late afternoon.

Conner rose and stretched, his lupine muzzle gaping wide in a colossal yawn, the muscles rippling across his broad back. He went through a few brief loosening exercises in preparation for his own evening run. Lin should be back soon, and they ran together when possible. He cracked his knuckles, then began putting the dishes back into their container. He was a tidy sort. Not compulsive about it, as were many wolves, but he did like things to be orderly. He hated having to search for something he needed.

He'd just replaced the last one and was reaching to close the lid when his sharp ears caught the rustle of footpads in the leaves. _That will be Lin. Wonder what his hurry is?_

_[ [ hey, boss! boss! ] ]_

Conner's head jerked up as a giant feral wolf leapt into the campsite, the mental connection snapping into place. **[ [ What's wrong, Lin? ] ]**

_[ [ bloodsuckers! ] ]_

The connotations on that term left a very bitter taste in his mouth.**[ [ ****What do you mean 'bloodsuckers'? ] ]**

_[ [ ruckus over thataway – bad business, you ask me ] ]_

**[ [ Okay. Let's take a look. ] ]** Conner loped after the feral. He knew his partner sometimes had a tendency to overstate the case, or go off half-cocked, so he always checked out his story to avoid making any hasty decisions.

They ran almost a klick, and Lin slowed abruptly. _[ [ other side of that big tree ] ]_

Conner caught the scent of woodsmoke, and the sound of rough voices. But it was the smell of burnt fur that raised his hackles, flattened his ears, and narrowed his eyes. He drew his pistol, edged forward and peered around the base of the venerable maple.

An even dozen furs ranged a rough half-circle around a roaring bonfire. At the far edge of the clearing sat two large, relatively new crew-vans and a big truck beside a small assortment of tents. Off to one side stood a banner pole with a blue, white, and red emblem on it. He didn't recognize the thing, but committed it to memory anyway. A few meters to the other side, a large pole had been pounded into the earth. Somefur had attached a stout rope to the top, and from the rope dangled another fur. He was naked. Conner thought he might be a rodent of some kind, but he'd been so badly beaten up it was hard to tell. A couple of the others were pitching rocks at his head.

A quick survey of the species present brought a frown to his brow. They were all carnivores. He spotted two furs with holstered side arms and two holding shotguns, which meant there were probably more weapons not in evidence. **[ [ Lin, stay here and keep an eye on them. I have to get some more firepower. ] ]**

_[ [ got it, boss ] ]_

Conner backed away until he was out of immediate line-of-sight, then took off for his campsite at a dead run.

When he got there, he unlocked the TrukBox, grabbed the satchel with his paw-guns and ammo, pulled two of the rifles off the rack in the cab, and sped back the way he'd come, nearly sprinting.

Conner had not made it to the age of forty-eight by being either careless or unprepared. He never, _ever_ went unarmed. Anywhere. He had every type of permit, and every level of clearance, that was available to a former Special Forces sharpshooter, and availed himself of the privileges they brought.

His favorite weapon was, and had been for some time, the Ruger Super Redhawk .454, a monster six-round revolver that packed some fifty percent more stopping power than a .44 Magnum, and could drop any land animal on the planet in one shot, assuming its user knew what he was doing. Conner did, and he had two of them. One was already in the custom holster on his left thigh. Both pistols were loaded with split-jacket, mercury-filled slugs, to maximize kinetic energy transfer. Had he had the luxury of sufficient time, he would have swapped to a less-expensive, less-damaging bullet.

For situations requiring finesse, as opposed to brute stopping power, he had The Lady, riding his other thigh. A pistol of his own design, it was exquisitely well-balanced, had a very long, very rigid barrel, a nine-round magazine, and fired .221 Standards. He could put all nine into a two-centimeter circle at forty meters.

The Winchester seventeen-shot would fit his agenda for the evening nicely. He'd had it since he was a pup. Built in the late 1880's, it had been his great-grandfather's, and his own father had felt that it was a good all-purpose firearm, a first-rate choice for a youngster just learning his way around a rifle. Conner kept it in mint condition.

Even better for what he had in mind was the twenty-one-shot Tremmele repeater. A Belgian import made of ultra-light-weight reinforced ceramics, it was dual-use from the factory, semi-automatic or manual, and Conner had made some 'improvements' of his own. It used a custom, high-velocity 7.5mm round. He had several clips in the satchel.

The lean canid moved silently through the light underbrush, following the noises of revel, the scent of burnt fur, and finally the flicker of the glowing pyre. He settled back down beside Lin among the huge maple's gnarled roots and took stock.

Dusk was very near, and the long, spidery shadows lent a spectral feel to the clearing. The scene reminded him of descriptions he'd read and heard of some of the more depraved tribal cultures. The rodent still hung from the post by his wrists, apparently unconscious. Looking at him dangling there, Conner wondered if he'd already taken too long. This time he noticed the oversized rotisserie next to the fire, and a hard grimace came over his features.

He carefully laid four of his weapons down in an easy-to-reach arc before him, the Tremmele toggled to semi-automatic, and screwed a silencer onto The Lady. He wanted at least one of those bastards for questioning later.

Propping the barrel across his right forearm, he drew a bead.

. . .

Red Jack motioned to G. W. to come speak with him, and the fox hurried to comply.

"You wanna do 'im?"

G. W.'s eyes went round. "Serious?"

The big Setter nodded. "He's all yours. Your honor, your kill. An' I dunno 'bout you, but I'm gettin' hungry." He held a .32-caliber snub nose out to the smaller fur.

G. W. smirked as he took the gun in his paw. Its weight lent him that same sense of power he got when driving a really fast car. He looked from it, to the mouse on the post, then to his gang leader. "Hell, yeah! Let's rock."

He turned and walked toward the dormouse, whose head lolled over to one side, the massive bruises clearly visible through his matted and bloody fur. Failing to note when Red Jack jerked and sank to the ground, he muttered, "Time to die, scumbred-lover." And he started to raise his weapon.

The silence was shattered as several very loud reports announced to the night that they were not alone in the woods. The two shotguns in evidence went spinning, damaged, to the ground, as did one of the side arms. Next in quick succession went the radiator and two tires of each of the vehicles.

After the first fusillade, most of the gangsters scattered into the forest, moving at quite a lively speed. G. W., however, was at first too stunned to move, then stared around stupidly at the rapidly disappearing furs.

. . .

_Hot damn! Worked like a charm._

That was Conner's first thought when the revelers exploded out of sight like a covey of quail. He emptied the rest of the magazine behind them, just to give them a little impetus, then grabbed up both his Rugers. He was a slightly better shot with his left paw, but accuracy was not an issue just now. He needed quantity. Specifically, a quantity of noise, which the huge revolvers delivered commendably.

Then he saw that one of them still stood by the fire, close to the unconscious mouse. Worse, he held a pistol. Worse still, he was aiming it at the mouse!

. . .

Rage.

Acerbic, white-hot rage.

How _dare_ someone come between him and his rightful kill?

Stop him?

Interfere?

_**Like hell!**_

He raised the gun and fired.

. . .

Conner's breath caught when he heard the shot and saw the mouse's body jerk. His own reaction was instantaneous and deadly accurate. Both his shots hit the lone fox in mid-torso. Either by itself would have been fatal. Together, they simply blew him in half.

**[ [ Lin, take the perimeter. Let me know if they head back. ] ]**

_[ [ i'm on it, boss ] ]_

Conner holstered one pistol, stuck the other into his waistband, and ran to the post, drawing his knife on the way. He slashed the ropes holding the . . . _Great Lord of Heaven! He's just a boy!_ . . . the sadly misused mouse, and caught him before he hit the ground. He could see where the bullet had entered, high on the young fur's back, and turned him over to look at the exit wound.

His brows drew together in a wince of sympathetic pain. _Terrific. Just lovely. Dum-dums._ He tore a piece of his shirt tail off and used it to stanch the flow as well as he could, then hefted the young mouse across his shoulders. "It's a good thing you aren't a bear, kid," he informed his unconscious burden. "You might have a chance if I can pack you outta here." _There's a hospital over in Middlebury. Take less'n half an hour. Hope he can hang on that long._

He collected the .32 that lay by the upper half of the fox, paused briefly at the maple to gather his weapons, and trotted back toward his camp.

_[ [ want me to snag the redhead, boss? ] ]_

**[ [ Yes, please. I feel the police may have some small interest in chatting with him. ] ]**

The huge feral caught the Setter's right arm in his teeth, flung him none-too-gently across his back, then trotted after Conner.

_[ [ gonna be a long night, boss ] ]_

**[ [ You said it, my friend. ] ]**

##

_** 6:45pm **_

Conner bounced two of his tires over the curb in front of the mulched flowerbed and screeched to a slanted stop almost against the emergency room doors. He picked up the unconscious mouse and ran into the lobby, to be met by three furs with a crash cart and dumbfounded looks on their faces.

The big wolf laid the boy on a gurney and said, "GSW upper right chest, severe laceration of paws, broken leg, burns, multiple contusions, pulse very weak and rapid."

The team flew into action, wheeling Martin through the swinging double doors and into the operating bay. Conner went over to the rabbit doe at the check-in station and said, "What do you need to know?"

It took her a few seconds to regain her composure after that abrupt entrance. "Ah. . . . Who is he?"

"Don't know yet."

"Excuse me?" She had to look up quite a ways to meet his eyes, being, as she was, a bit less than a meter and a half tall herself.

"I found him in the woods, being tortured by a bunch of sadists. Ran 'em off, cut him loose, and brought him in."

"Oh dear _Lord!_ Tortured? Where was he?"

"They were in the woods, east of Highway 116. Had themselves a little barbecue planned, I think, with that mouse as the main course." He noted in passing that her name tag read 'Jenny LaPinn'.

The rabbit looked as if she were going to be sick. Conner nodded grimly. "They say it takes all kinds to make a world, but that isn't so. It's just that we _have_ all kinds, and we have to deal with it. But frankly, some kinds I could do without."

The nurse successfully fought her gorge back down and called an orderly over. "John, would you check in OR-1 and see if the patient has any ID?"

The thin chinchilla nodded. "Be right back." He zipped through the doors.

She turned back to Conner. "I'll need your name and information."

He laid several different pieces of identification out on the counter and she started tapping the keys on her workstation.

_[ [ hey, boss, looks like he's comin' around ] ]_

[ [ **On my way.** ] ] Conner got the nurse's attention. "I'll be right back. Gotta check on the guy in the truck."

She frowned. "What guy?"

"One of ones who organized the barbecue."

Her muzzle dropped open as she followed his (_ruggedly handsome, oh, he'll do just __fine_) form out the door. Then she gave herself a little shake and hit the speed-dial for the police.

. . .

[ [ **Is he awake yet?** ] ]

_[ [ nope – won't be long, though – oh, wait, there he is ] ]_

Conner stopped at the front of the truck. He had laid the canine out in the bed, with Lin beside him as a guard. He knew Lin's quirky sense of humor, and decided to keep some distance for a bit.

[ [ **You feel like playing 'Welcome Wagon'? **] ]

Conner could feel the grin that spread across his partner's face. _[ [ sit tight, boss ] ]_

Conner squatted down out of sight.

Jack Damien was very disoriented. He had no clue as to where he was. His head ached terribly. The .22 caliber slug had ricocheted off the top of his cranium, knocking him cold as effectively as a hammer. He moaned softly, then caught his breath in a hiss at the spike of pain that brought. Bringing one paw up to the side of his head, he opened his eyes.

A monster of legend and nightmare stood over him. The giant wolf massed half-again what he did, and its head was proportionally larger than a normal wolf's in the bargain. The deep-socketed, pale-yellow eyes bored into his, the huge muzzle bare centimeters from his own, drops of saliva leaking from the black flews to _plip_ into the fur of his face. Its rancid breath took his away.

Now, Jack was not a coward. Heartless, evil, grasping, manipulative, cunning, narrow-minded, and petty, yes, but not a coward, and he had never before in his life backed down from a dangerous situation. On this occasion, however, he was willing to make an exception.

Lips drawn back, long teeth fully exposed, the hideous maw drew closer as a low, rumbling growl began deep in the dire wolf's chest.

Red Jack was convinced, _thoroughly_ convinced, that he was about to die. And although he feared it couldn't really do any damage to a creature this size, he yanked out his belt knife and tried a slash at the thing's face.

But the wolf was as fast as it was big. The knife bit empty air. Then the muzzle whipped back and caught the flying forearm. Its teeth met through the flesh, and the massive creature shook him like a rag. The knife went spinning into the ground cover.

Jack screamed shrilly, and passed out.

Conner stood and walked around to the back of the truck, a sardonic smile on his face. "You having fun?"

_[ [ who, me? ] ]_ But Conner could see the lights that danced in the feral's eyes as he licked his flews. He grabbed one of the Setter's legs, pulled him down to the tailgate and checked the arm. _Not bleeding too badly. Certainly less than the mouse._ He quickly rifled the unconscious fur's pockets. Besides the usual wallet containing license, credcards, photos, and such, he found a PA, a large, heavily-loaded key ring, a two-page list of names with the heading 'Surveillance Volunteers', and three small, yellow sticky-notes. The first read:

9/26

Martin O'Musca

Dormouse

New Haven Junction

1 mo/3 bro

Conner noted a big, red check mark beside what appeared to be yesterday's date, and frowned. That probably meant that the mouse being worked on in there was this Martin O'Musca.

The second was similarly cryptic:

9/26

Foxx, Room 133

Anaport Lodge

Blackie to fix

Anaport Lodge. Why did that ring a bell? Where had he seen that name recently? He couldn't remember, but he didn't worry about it. It would come to him eventually.

The third made even less sense:

Evans

That bastard squirrel

Big mustelid scumbreed

No leads

Put Kelly on it.

He kept the PA, the keys and the papers. [ [ **Lin, I'm takin' this wad of garbage indoors. You want to stay in the cab?** ] ]

_[ [ no thanks, boss, i'm gone ] ]_ And the enormous wolf melted into the shadows.

[ [ **See you later, buddy. And thanks!** ] ]

_[ [ no problem – catch up with you at breakfast ] ]_

Conner grabbed the Setter's undamaged arm and dragged him off the tailgate to thump onto the concrete, then towed him into the emergency room only seconds ahead of the police cruiser.

"Hey, Jenny!"

The nurse startled again and looked his way. "What?"

"You get any ID on the mouse?" He hauled Red Jack's inert form up onto another of the gurneys in the hallway, and strapped him down securely.

She watched him work for a few seconds, then said, "No. He didn't have a thing."

"Try using Martin O'Musca."

"Martin . . . Martin . . ." Her eyes widened. "That guy who got kidnapped?"

"Yeah. Just playing a hunch, but I think that might be our boy."

The officers came in at that juncture and headed over to the desk. One of them asked, "What's goin' down, J.J.?" while the other sized up Conner and the fur on the gurney.

"This gentlefur brought in a boy he found in the woods. We think, uh, well, _he_ thinks it might be Martin O'Musca."

Both officers stared hard at Conner, who matched their gazes levelly. Conner noted that the nametags of the two canines read 'T. Shep' and 'H. Paris' respectively.

Officer Paris, a black poodle, said, "What's your name, sir?"

"Conner von Trapp."

"I assume you have a permit to carry that cannon?" he said, indicating the holster on Conner's left thigh.

"Several."

That response brought him a raised eyebrow. "So, what makes you think that might be Martin O'Musca in there?"

Conner reached into his pocket and pulled out the three sticky-notes. He passed them to the policefur without comment.

Officer Paris flipped through them, his surprise plain, then asked, in a tone that carried not a little menace, "And _where_ did you get _these_?"

Conner flipped a thumb over his shoulder. "Off him."

They went over and looked down on the unconscious Setter. "And who is he?"

"Name's John Damien. Best I can tell, he's the BFIC of the bunch that had that mouse kid on their menu for supper."

"_Supper?_"

"Yep. His gun was the one that gave him the hole in his chest." He pulled the pistol out of his coat pocket and offered it to the officer.

The poodle took the gun and checked it, noting that only one chamber had been fired. "Do you really think they intended to _eat_ him?"

Conner nodded, his dark blue-gray eyes hard as polar ice. "Had him hanging from a stake, and a big rotisserie set up over a bonfire. Kid's been worked over, but good. Don't really know if he's gonna make it or not. _Hope_ he does."

Officer Shep was busy contacting the station on his radio. "Hey, Danni? Tell Captain Reynard we may have found Mr. O'Musca. . . . No, I'm not joking. . . . Yes, we're still at the Middlebury hospital. Tell him we may have one of the perps, too. . . . Nah, some civilian. No medals for me this time. . . . Huh. As far as I know, he's still alive. They're working on him in OR. . . . Right, better get in touch with the AG."

##


	8. Chapter 4 Confirmations&Questions Part B

**_Chapter Eighteen – Confirmations and Questions – Part B_**

**_. . ._**

**_. . ._**

**_. . ._**

**##**

_** Tuesday 27 September 2016, 8:07pm **_

The armored bus came to rest by the Emergency Room doors just long enough to disgorge its passengers, then lumbered off to the far side of the parking lot. Half a dozen furs in full riot gear fanned out around the entrance and in the lobby. With Siobhan in the van, the group of friends hurried up to the registration desk.

She wasted no time on formalities. "I be wantin' t' see me son as was brought here."

"Excuse me, ma'am, but you can't just breeze in and go straight back! You'll have to fill out these . . . Oh, hello, Ms. Kirriapak."

Michael Truefoot had come up at that point accompanied by Sriell Kirriapak, the director of the hospital, an elderly femme loris. "It's okay, Jenny, we've already had notice that these folks were coming. They want to know about Mr. O'Musca."

"Oh. He's – uh – still in surgery."

Siobhan's jawline trembled briefly, but she got it back under control. "Wha' t'ey be doin' t'en?" Debbye and Cinnamon took a paw apiece and gave her a couple of reassuring squeezes.

"Uh – you should probably talk to the resident on duty. I don't know the details."

One of the two nurses standing at the other end of the room, a young orange tabby, called over to them, "Robson is in the OR. He's the one doing the surgery. I heard he got all the bullet fragments out, though."

Siobhan gave a small squeak and leaned hard against Debbye. "Me boy wiss shot?"

The nurse nodded. "He was in pretty bad shape."

Sriell gave her a severe look and asked, "Were you on the surgical team?"

"Eh, erm, that is, uh, n-, um, no ma'am." The feline self-consciously examined the floor in front of her.

"Then perhaps you could refrain from giving a triage evaluation until you have accurate information."

"Yes, ma'am." Her voice was very small.

The director turned back to Siobhan. "Mrs. O'Musca, Dr. Rodrigues is a fine surgeon. Your son has only been in the operating theater for a little over an hour, so I wouldn't worry yet. I'll try to get a complete report for you as soon as I can." She patted the small mouse's paw and left for the elevators.

Siobhan stared after her for a few seconds, then went over to the seats in the waiting area, knelt in front of one, made the sign of the Cross, and started praying. Debbye joined her, as did Samantha and Chris a minute later. Lee caught Sabrina's attention and asked, "Does Karl know yet?"

"I doubt it." She turned an inquisitive eye on Michael, who grimaced and reached for his PA. "Shame on me. I forgot." He called up the number Karl had sent him and hit speed dial.

Lee walked over to the desk. "Ms. LaPinn, could you tell me about the fur who brought Martin in?"

She quirked a brow and made a slight motion with her head. "You could probably find out more by asking him yourself." Lee turned and looked in the direction indicated, and saw a large wolf lounging at ease on the carpet in the far corner. He appeared to be snoozing.

"Thanks." Lee walked over.

The wolf was not asleep. He sat up when Lee got within a few meters, and rolled easily to his feet. "Can I help ya?"

Lee stuck his paw out. "Lee Evans. I'm a friend of Martin's. I wanted to thank you for what you did."

"Conner von Trapp." He took the paw and gave a firm shake. "Just glad I was in the right place at the right time."

"Can you tell me about it?"

"Not that much to tell. Came up on their little get-together and saw what was happening. They didn't see me. Some of 'em were packin', so I went back to camp and got more heat. Sent 'em all runnin' into the woods with a few rounds, but I didn't catch the action going down right by the youngster." His muzzle twisted in disgust. "One of 'em shot the mouse, and I had to scrag him."

Lee's eyebrows shot up. "You killed one of them?"

"Yep. Although I like to think of it as pest control. Damned sadists."

"So Martin was okay before he got shot?"

"No. Not by a damn sight." He rubbed a paw across his mouth. "He'd been worked over good. Broken bones, burns, punctures, you name it. He probably never even felt the bullet."

Lee's stomach flopped. _Oh, I don't want to even __think__ about what Karl's going to do when he finds out._

Michael walked up. "Good news, Lee. Well, sort of good," he cautioned at the cat's optimistic expression. "I was able to get in touch with Mr. Luscus, and he's in the area. Should be here in about ten minutes."

"Oh," said Lee. "Ah. That's – that's good news. Uh – really good." _I hope Martin is out of surgery soon!_

##

_** 8:24pm **_

The commotion outside was brief, but rather noisy. There were several yells, a couple of loud popping sounds, and a thud as something hit the outside wall. Several of the furs in the waiting area, and all of the staff on paw, stopped and stared.

The door slammed against the wall when Karl came through. He spotted the group and trotted in their direction. The four riot police in the lobby had come to immediate full alert, but Lee gave them the "stand-down" signal, calling, "It's okay, he's with us." He hurried up to the big fur. "Karl, what did you do?"

"Couple of cops tried to keep me from coming in. Bad idea." Karl looked around and asked, "Where is he?" That undertone in the wolverine's voice put Lee off his feed instantly. _I knew it, I knew it. This is not good._ "He's still in the OR."

"Prognosis?"

"We don't know. They got the bullet fragments out, though."

Lee managed keep his ears from going flat at the ferocity that manifested on the wolverine's face. "How many times was he shot?"

"Just once."

"Then why is he still in surgery?"

"There were . . . other injuries." The rest of the group, after seeing Karl's reactions, had tacitly decided to allow Lee the pleasure of continuing the conversation with the volatile fur. "We don't know the full extent yet."

"Then let's find out." He headed for the OR.

An orderly stepped into his path, a muscular badger about a head shorter than Karl. "I'm sorry sir, but you can't come back here. Hospital ruhh_sshhzzhh …"_

Karl had snapped a paw out to close around his throat, lifted him up and deposited him a meter and a half to the side, then continued his forward motion.

Lee chased after him. "Karl! You're not sterile! You want to jeopardize Martin's chances? He could get an infection."

That stopped the big fur.

"Look, if you're all that interested in the details, you can ask the wolf who brought him in."

Karl's head whipped around. "He's here?"

Lee nodded. "Out in the waiting area. He was curious to know some of the background, so we've been talking about the Knights and our various run-ins with them."

"I would talk to him."

"Great. This way." Lee led him out of the operating area and back to the waiting room. They walked up to Conner, and Lee made the introductions.

Conner squinted hard at Karl. "You look familiar."

"Is there any reason why that should bother you?"

"It doesn't bother me. I just haven't ever seen too many wolverines, and so I ought to be able to place you." He studied the big fur for several more seconds, and shrugged. "Oh, well. Not important. So. You're the little guy's boss, huh?"

"Employer. Friend. Mentor. Sensei. Surrogate father. When I find . . ."

All of them turned when a green-gowned ocelot came through the OR doors, and he was instantly deluged with questions.

"Please! Quiet!" He held up his paws until he got silence. "He's still in surgery, but it looks good so far. No major organs appear to have been damaged."

Siobhan stepped up to confront him. "Be me boy a'right? An' ye be tellin' me straight!"

He saw the determination and the need in her eyes, and nodded. "Fine. He is stable, at this time. I expect him to pull through and, given time, return to a relatively normal life. But please understand that he was very, _very_ badly injured."

She took a deep breath, but her gaze never wavered.

"His paws sustained a great deal of damage, and will need some reconstructive surgery, but that isn't my field. I know a fur in New York who is quite good, a paw specialist, and she's done some really amazing work, so I'm hopeful about that. Right now, we just have them bandaged. He is almost completely covered in deep bruises, and one of his eyes may be damaged. We'll have to check that later, when he's conscious. He has a concussion and a broken collar bone, and both shoulders were dislocated. They broke three ribs, punctured a lung, and the bullet shattered his right scapula."

Lee was watching Siobhan, and noted how much she was trembling.

"Plus he has a broken leg, and a broken ankle. The concussion isn't too bad, so I don't think there will be any lasting problems from it. But he was tortured, and has lost some fur and skin to burn damage. Mostly on his back and chest. He'll have scars, likely some pretty obvious ones. And although he lost a lot of blood from the gunshot wound, I'm pretty sure it wasn't so much that it caused any brain damage."

Lee heard a small, stuttering, grinding sound and glanced to the side. Karl's jaw was tightly clenched, rage flowing from his face, his eyes glinting a pale red.

Siobhan blinked several times to restrain her tears. "An' me son be alive, I gi' thee me thanks." She shook his paw, turned, and went back over to the seating area, where she knelt and resumed her prayers.

Lee asked, "How long do you think it will take for him to recover?"

"I don't really know. He appears to be in excellent shape, apart from his injuries, so he may heal quickly. But he'll be in the hospital for at least six weeks, more likely ten, and I doubt he'll be mobile for another eight after that, at a minimum. His paws, though . . . ."

Karl rumbled, "You said you knew a specialist." The tone of his voice really bothered Lee. Glancing over at him again, he could read nothing in that rigid set of features.

"Yes." The doctor looked up at him with the beginnings of alarm. "As I, um, as I said, he _should_ regain use of his paws. But how much use, I can't say. They've been ripped up pretty badly. It's just my opinion, but I think it will be a good six months before they can even start the physical therapy, once the surgery is finished. Maybe a year before he can use them for normal, routine tasks."

A nurse came up to the doctor and said, "Jamie wants to know if you have time to come sign off the paperwork on the other one."

Karl looked at the nurse, then at the group of friends, and asked, "What other one?"

Debbye said, "The other one Mr. von Trapp brought in."

The wolverine turned to Conner and said, "They had two they were torturing?"

"Nope. Other one was one of the bad guys. Fellow name of John Damien."

Karl's gaze intensified alarmingly. "John . . . _Damien_."

Conner nodded.

"Where is he?"

The nurse answered, "The police drove off with him about fifteen minutes ago."

Karl's frown didn't ease up any as he continued, "Were you aware that Damien is the High Lord Knight of the order?"

As one, the assembled furs' jaws fell open. A chorus of "What?" "Not really!" "Serious?" "I don't believe it!" and so on started gathering steam. Michael asked, "How did you find that out?"

Karl ignored the question, and stated, without preamble, "When I am finished here I will find him, and I will peel the hide from his worthless carcass, turn it inside out, and sew him up inside it." He might have been discussing wallpaper with a sales associate for all the tension in his voice.

The Doctor Rodrigues blurted, "Sir! You can't do that! You shouldn't even talk that way!"

Karl stared hard at the doctor for a moment, and said, "Why not? I've done it before." The primal rage in that low voice made the ocelot take a couple of involuntary steps backward. Karl turned to Conner. "Can you show me where you found him?"

A curt nod was his answer.

"Take me there."

"Let's go. I'd like to get a piece of 'em myself." He took off for the exit.

Karl stated, "Pieces are all that will be left." And he headed for the door after Conner.

Lee sized up the situation and swiftly turned to Debbye. "Sweetheart?"

"Yes, dear?"

"Karl's thinking slaughter, and I have to stop him. Get everybody to pray for him, and pray _hard_! And send some my way, too. This won't be easy." And he sprinted after the pair. He got to the door just as Karl was about to exit, and blocked it.

"Karl, please don't do this."

"Move, Lee." His tone was flat, unequivocal.

"Karl, I _can't_ let you go like this. You'll get yourself killed. And even if you don't, I'm afraid a lot of others will die needlessly."

"Lee?" That low voice carried an ominous overburden of menace.

The cat watched him warily. He had read descriptions of the berserk blood-madness that sometimes overtook certain mustelids. Badgers were most often mentioned, but minks and wolverines had been known to succumb occasionally. He was afraid that might be exactly what was happening here.

"Lee, I like you. It would bother me to have to hurt you, but I will if you try to stop me."

Now, Lee had a keen familiarity with his own level of expertise, and thought he might be able to take the wolverine in a fair fight. But he'd never seen Karl fight, and Karl knew quite a lot about Lee's skills. And the calm, sure assumption of success in his voice gave Lee quite a bit to think about.

Besides which, Karl was armed to the eyeballs.

Conner had decided that this altercation was none of his affair, and stood to the side, arms crossed, watching. The two riot police moved closer, paws on the hilts of their rifles.

"Karl, please, don't you see how this can't possibly work to anyone's advantage? Yes, track them. Yes, find them. Yes, capture them, even. But be careful, and do it right, and do it legally."

"I make no deals, and I give no quarter to vermin. You can come with me if you like. And as long as you don't get in my way, we'll get along fine."

Lee thought that over for almost a second, then stepped aside. "I'll come with you."

"Wise."

Karl indicated the door to Conner and the wolf preceded them into the parking lot.

One of the police moved to block Lee. "Sir, we have orders from the Attorney General to keep you safe."

Lee's ears flattened as he responded, "What my friend just said? That goes for me if _you_ don't move."

Two of the others moved in to back him up. The officer brought his riot stick up and said, "Sir, please don't make me . . ."

Lee disarmed him and flipped him bodily into the other two. They landed in a pile and skidded to a stop nearly four meters away. He flung the riot stick at the fourth officer, knocking the rifle from his paws. Then he darted out the door.

Conner had moved his truck earlier. He indicated its location to Karl, who nodded and headed over to his ATV, Lee running hard to catch up.

Back inside, as the policefurs got to their feet amid the odd groan and moan, one of them observed, "**_We're_** supposed to protect **_him_**?"

"Yeah, right," answered another. He dusted off his uniform. "So, what I wonder is, who's gonna protect the purists?"

. . .


	9. Chapter 4 Confirmations&Questions Part C

**_Chapter Eighteen – Confirmations and Questions – Part C_**

**_. . ._**

**_. . ._**

**_. . ._**

**##**

_** Tuesday 27 September 2016, 8:32pm **_

It would hardly overstate the case to say that Lee was worried about how this would turn out.

He had yet to see Karl so worked up over anything. During the incident at the park, the wolverine had been very calm, almost relaxed. Lee now felt certain that he easily could have killed the fourteen Knights and ended the conflict before it began, but had chosen capture over death even though it involved a huge amount of effort, and some small risk to them. Of course, the risk would have been minimized if Emily hadn't tried to get back to her mother. But still!

He rode in the ATV with Karl, who followed Conner's truck. He didn't say anything for the first couple of minutes, as he thought about how he could come up with a viable, defensible position. He knew he didn't have a lot of time. It would take them just over twenty minutes to get to the site, and Lee was feeling the pressure.

"Karl, may I ask you a question?"

"If you must."

"What do you intend to do when you find the rest of the Knights?"

"I intend to kill them."

"All of them?"

"Yes."

"But they didn't all shoot Martin."

"Any one of them would have, though. And you are not cognizant of their other recent activities. I stopped an attack against Ash Creek Inn earlier today, and broke up a conference call concerning the disposition of the daughter of the governor of Oregon, who was apparently kidnapped yesterday."

"What? You're kidding!"

"Not in the least. They are all culpable. They are all conspirators in this madness, and I _will_ put a stop to it." He glanced over at Lee. "With extreme prejudice."

Lee paused to collect his thoughts. What Karl had just revealed hadn't made his task any easier. The wolverine pulled out his PA and tossed it to Lee. "I haven't taken the time yet, but you might as well, since you're along for the ride. Call up the AG and prep him for a data transmission."

Lee looked the device over and accessed the phone function. He had memorized Mr. Truefoot's number, and had him on the line quickly.

"Yes, sir. Mr. Luscus has some information to pass on to you." He held the PA away from his face and asked, "Where is it?"

"Hit 'FILE', then type '1187'."

"Okay. Got it. Now what?"

"Ask him to put his PA in 'RECEIVE' mode. When he does, you should get three short beeps."

Lee spoke with Michael, then said, "Okay . . . . . Yeah, there they are."

"Press the 'DOWN ARROW' key twice. The word 'SEND' should come up on the screen."

". . . . Got it."

"Press 'ENTER'. When the transmission completes, it will automatically switch back to speaker mode."

Lee only had to wait for a few seconds before that happened. "You get that, sir?" He waited while the Attorney General checked the contents of the file. "What? Oh, I'm sure he's serious . . . . . I wouldn't doubt the veracity of the data, no . . . . . Yes, he said he got it today . . . . . Right, I understand. Yes, I think it would be wise to contact them . . . . . Oh, you know the governor? . . . . . I see . . . . . I hope so, too, sir. Good luck." Lee folded the PA and passed it back to Karl, who dropped it into a pocket.

Lee said, after a short pause, "They're pretty much scum, aren't they?"

"That is high praise for their kind."

"I can understand that you want to stop them. So do I, very much. But you don't need to kill them. You didn't kill anyfur at the park. We were outnumbered and under direct attack, and yet you chose the less aggressive response."

"That was my mistake. I will rectify the error tonight."

Another half-minute of silence slipped past. "Karl, may I ask you a personal question?"

"What do you hope to accomplish by doing so?"

"I hope to get you to re-evaluate your motives."

"There is nothing lacking in my motivation."

"I beg to differ."

"You are welcome to your opinion. But you should know this: I have been dealing with walking garbage of their ilk, directly and indirectly, for over thirty years, nearly twenty of them in an official capacity. It is my experience that they do not change, they do not mellow out, and they do not give up their objectives. What they understand is superior force. The only sure way you will get lasting peace from a rabid bigot is if the rabid bigot is dead."

"So where does mercy fit into that equation?"

"It doesn't."

"Karl, listen to yourself. You don't sound anything like the fur I met at Mercy Chapel. Is your professed Christianity nothing but a ruse?"

". . . . . That is none of your concern."

"If you are a brother in the Lord, and I see that you are about to fall into grievous sin, it _is_ my concern, and you know it."

Karl was quiet for a moment. Then he said, "You don't know everything, Lee. You have not dealt with them the way I have. Rest assured, there is no alternative."

"So you're just going to track them down like game animals and kill them? No court, no trial, no justice?"

"This _is_ justice."

"That is not for you to say. You are not a legal representative of the judicial system."

Karl said nothing in response to that.

Lee continued, "Do you know what will happen to you if you go through with this?"

"Fully. That is unimportant."

"You think it's unimportant to Martin?"

"He will survive. I plan to leave the Shop to him."

"That won't do him much good if he can't use his paws for a year, will it?"

Karl spared the cat a glance, but did not reply.

Lee followed up on that tack. "Martin would agree with me, I think. He doesn't strike me as a vengeful type. Do you think he will appreciate being the catalyst for a mass murder? How will you go about explaining your actions to _him_?"

"Tell me this, Lee. How will you go about explaining to your children that you killed two furs when you had the opportunity to let them live?"

Lee's eyes widened as he caught his breath. He felt as if he'd been slapped.

"I examined the site, too, Lee. You used a finishing move on that weasel. You could have incapacitated him instead. And you could have put your shurriken into that fox's arms rather than his brain. Those two furs are dead, and they would still be alive if you had chosen a different strategy."

Lee stared ahead, unblinking.

"I see you have no ready comeback. Your arguments might hold more validity with me if I thought they meant that much to you, personally."

"They do."

"Oh, indeed. Obviously."

Lee released a long breath. "Karl, I've replayed that fight in my mind in a hundred variations since then. It wasn't the first time I ever found myself in such a position, but it _was_ the first time my wife had ever been shot. Yes, my mind was clouded. I didn't exactly _want_ to kill them, but at the time I'll have to admit that I wasn't really looking for alternatives. I fell back on programmed response and engrained reflex instead of examining the possible ways I could handle it. Much of what I did was purely reactive, a result of riding my subconscious, and if I could, I'd change the outcome."

"That doesn't change the fact that they are dead."

"No, it doesn't. Nor does it change the fact that the two situations are quite different. Tonight, no one is attacking you. I get the feeling that you are doing all this out of rage, rather than reason."

His companion made no reply to that.

"Karl, I will carry the knowledge of my failure with me to the grave. All I can do is beg forgiveness for it, and trust in God's unfailing patience with me. It was a lapse. It was sin. It was wrong."

Still, there was no answer from the wolverine.

"Look, I know the purists are not innocent. Heaven knows, I'm well aware of that fact. I hate everything they stand for. Dealing with them is repugnant to me. But they are still free moral agents, they are still under the jurisdiction of the courts. And most important, they are independent, living souls and still within God's reach."

Karl turned a frown his way.

Lee sensed an opening. "Or do you think it totally impossible that God could do anything constructive with a bigot?"

The wolverine watched the truck ahead. Conner was signaling a turn onto a gravel road, and he sped up a little to close the distance.

"No. I don't think that at all."

"So, is it fair to any of them, is it fair to our Lord, to end their lives before they have every possible chance to come to redemption?"

"That is hitting below the belt in ways you cannot imagine."

"If it gets you see the situation clearly, I don't care. Karl, I don't know what kind of baggage you carry. I know you used to have some kind of top-secret job, and from other clues I suppose it was in anti-terrorism, and most likely as a field agent, and I think it likely that you lost some good friends in the line of duty. So I realize you probably have a lot of issues with terrorists and hate groups and similar organizations. But about fifty years ago, a wise fur said, 'Darkness cannot drive out darkness, only light can do that. Hate cannot drive out hate, only love can do that'."

Karl steered with one paw while using the other to rub his muzzle thoughtfully. "Sometimes I think you are smarter than you have any right to be."

"I'll take that as a compliment. But my point is, what you are contemplating is nothing but murder. And Karl, I don't think you are a murderer."

". . . . . . . Not anymore."

That comment made Lee very apprehensive. "I appreciate that you want to act the part of the Paw of Justice. I'll even help you. But this is not self-defense. Even if they are all armed, I would rather try to catch them as opposed to killing them outright. Do you think you wouldn't be able to take them alive?"

Karl thought that over for a moment. "No, I don't really think that would present a problem, tactically. But is it the wisest course of action?"

"Well, what are your reasons for wanting them dead, other than revenge?"

"The elimination of threat."

"So you feel that they would present a threat, even in prison?"

"They will get out eventually. And, despite its name, nofur who spends a considerable amount of time in a penitentiary feels any real penitence. They are usually worse than before."

"I agree. The statistics support that. But does that make it the _righteous_ choice for you, personally?"

Karl drew and released a long breath. "You just can't let that go, can you?"

"Can you? Can you seriously consider jeopardizing your salvation over this issue? Do you not believe that God is sovereign?"

There was another long pause. Lee thought he wasn't going to answer, but at last he said, "I think we're here."

He parked beside the truck and they got out. Karl looked at Lee over the ATV's hood. "You make many valid points. I will concede this much: I won't kill any of them that I don't have to."

"And I will operate under the same standard."

Conner motioned for them to follow him, which they did. "Either of you like a pair of IR goggles?" he asked as he pulled on a headset.

Lee and Karl both declined the offer.

The wolf looked at Karl. "Didn't know wolverines had night vision."

The big fur just shrugged.

"Whatever." He pointed at Karl. "I _know_ you're packin'. Probably more than I have." Then he glanced at Lee. "But you don't have anything besides that knife."

"How did you know I have a knife?"

"The way you held yourself. The way your shirt falls. You're carryin' something, and there weren't any bumps big enough to be a pistol, so it must be a knife."

"Very perceptive."

"You want some fire power?"

"What do you have?"

"What can you use?"

Lee had to chuckle at that. "My favorite pawgun is a .45ACP."

Conner pursed his lips, considered, drew a pistol from his satchel, and tossed it to Lee. The cat held it up to the light of the rising moon. "Whoa! That looks like a .44 Magnum."

".454 Super Redhawk."

Karl was impressed. "You have much need for that monster?"

"I'm a hunting guide."

"Oh."

Conner tossed a box of shells to Lee. "You ever used one before?"

"No. But I've heard the Casull shells have a significant kick."

"Uh-huh. Chamber pressure of almost five hundred mega-Pascals. Two ounces lighter than a .44 Magnum, but half-again the muzzle energy. Kicks like a mule on steroids."

"Well, I hope I can get by without firing it."

"I doubt it. Come on." And he plunged into the brush.

##

"Kick it into high, Talbert. We ain't got all night."

"Screw you, Bradley! I'm almost done. You want the tire changed faster, why don't you get down here in the mud?"

The two furs exchanged a few more insults before Bradley moved around to the front of the truck. "How's that radiator comin' along?"

A short badger looked up from where he was hunched over the open hood. "Be better if I had some goddam _light_ to work with!"

"Hey, look. It wasn't **_my_** idea to camp out here in the middle of nowhere! It wasn't **_my_** idea to keep everybody else in the dark! It wasn't **_my_** idea to confiscate all the mobiles and PA's! Talk to Damien if you wanna complain. It's his paranoia that got us in this fix."

"I'd love to talk to Damien, only he ain't here, is he?"

That fact was troubling all the purists. But not as much as the corpse of the fox that still lay on the ground in front of the post. Nor _nearly_ as much as what they were going to have to do to get the hell out of there. They knew it would only be a matter of time before some official type started nosing around, and they _really_ wanted to be elsewhere when that happened.

But they needed six tires, and they only had three. They needed three radiators, and didn't have any. Fortunately, one of the Knights was an auto mechanic, and he had a few basic tools with him. He had found that one of the damaged radiators could probably be patched well enough to get them out. But it would have to be rigged into one of the other trucks because the other two spare tires wouldn't fit the vehicle it was on. So the one serviceable transport now had tires, and would shortly have a radiator, of sorts. And the remaining pawful of Knights were busy trying to get all the identifying marks off the other two.

Five of them, after working on the vehicles for a while, declared them irreparable, and had elected to hike out. The rest decided that traipsing through unfamiliar forest at night was a bad idea, and fixing one truck would be easier. All twelve of them wouldn't have fit in it anyway.

Bradley went to look at the progress being made on the last crew-van. "What's takin' so long? Moe's just about done."

"It's hard to get to the ID stamp on the motor. Can't barely touch it with the file."

"Lemme see." He shone the flashlight down on the spot, thought about it for a few seconds, then drew his pistol.

"Hey, Bradley, that's my truck! What'n'hell you think you're doin'?"

Bradley changed his aim to draw down on the protesting fur. "Shut up. Think of it as a sacrifice for the cause. We can't leave anything they can ID us with."

"_**Fuck**_ the cause! You ain't blowing a hole in my engine!"

In answer, Bradley quickly did just that. Two other furs caught the owner and held him while the job was completed.

"There. Now they can't track it."

. . .

Three sets of ears pricked up at the sound of the nearby gunshots. Conner broke into a lope and the others followed suit. In less than a minute they settled beside the maple and checked the lay of the land.

Conner, using his IR goggles, said, "That's them. There are only seven of them, though."

"Didn't you say there were twelve?"

"Others musta left. Looks like they're trying to get one of the trucks roadworthy." He looked back at the wolverine. "You got anything fancy in that pack that can take 'em all out together?"

He thought for a second, and nodded. "All but two of them are bunched up now. I can probably get the two outboard furs without alerting the five in the middle . . ."

"With what?" Lee wanted to know.

Karl gave him a look. "I told you I wouldn't kill tonight without cause, and I won't." He showed the cat his gatling pistol. Lee looked it over with interest.

Conner volunteered, "I can pop one of 'em. Graze his skull, knock him out colder'n a well-digger's ass."

Lee quirked a brow. "You're that good a shot?"

"Yep. Heck, I could probably do it even with someone else's gun." He pulled out the long .22 and held it across his chest. "With this, I can tell you how long he'll be out, to within half an hour."

"Okay, then," agreed Karl. "You tap the one on the right, I'll get the one on the left." He adjusted the setting on his dart gun, explaining to Lee, "This is a neurotoxin. It will render him unconscious almost instantly. He'll have the biggest headache in the Western hemisphere tomorrow morning, but otherwise he'll be unharmed." Karl pulled out several small, lenticular objects and arranged them in one paw. Then he nodded at Conner. The wolf propped The Lady on his forearm, and Karl took careful aim with his weapon. Lee heard the two pistols make small _spat_ sounds almost simultaneously, and the two stragglers flinched and dropped. A bare second later, Karl let fly with his pawful of esoteric ordinance.

. . .

One of the Knights just happened to glance over at the moment Conner fired, and saw a tiny flash of light. He had time to squint and open his mouth to yell before several small projectiles splattered the group.

The neuroshock bombs detonated on contact, and the entire area where they stood lit up with violet-blue streamers of static electricity. The five furs fell, writhing, to the ground.

Karl said, "Come on," and jumped out toward the Knights.

The lightshow subsided in a couple of seconds, but the victims continued twitching. Karl watched them carefully for a minute.

Lee asked, "What are we watching for?"

"To see if any one of them stops breathing." He looked over at the cat. "You do know CPR, I assume?"

"Yes. Is there some danger that I might need to use it?"

"Probably not, but those with weak tickers or epilepsy sometimes have a bad reaction. I just want to make sure none of them kicks off." And he gave Lee an elaborate mock salute.

"You'll be glad you did later, Karl. I promise."

"I was tempted to pull out the AP mortars, then say 'oops'. But since this means so much to you, I'm playing it dead on the beam."

Lee grinned. "I'm proud of you, Karl."

"Hmph."

"You know what Aristotle said about that?"

"Aristotle said a lot of things. Which one might you be thinking of?"

"_I count him braver who overcomes his desires than him who conquers his enemies…"_

"… _for the hardest victory is the victory over self," _Karl finished the quote. He gave the cat a level look for a moment, then patted him on the shoulder. "Thanks, Lee." He bent then, and briefly checked the unconscious furs. "They'll be fine. Sort of. Won't be able to stand up or focus their eyes for a day or two, or walk a straight line for a couple more, but otherwise fine." He checked in the vehicles for rope, and found plenty. "Here. Make them comfy." And he trotted out into the woods.

"Where you going?"

"After the others. They've probably had plenty of time to get away, but just in case they got lost, I think I'll track them."

"Need any help?"

"You wouldn't be able to keep up." And he bounded off into the darkness.

"You wanna bet?" Lee stood and trotted over to where Karl had been, but now there was no sign of him. _Dang! How'd he do that?_

. . .

Karl had noticed a number of scent trails on the path leading northwest. The trucks had driven in that way, and it only made sense that the five who had left would follow that course, so that's where he headed. He was soon rewarded with newer spoors, and sorted them out: fox, marten, fox, lion, bear . . . . . . .

. . . . . Lion . . . . .

The scent matched. This fur had been in on Martin's abduction. Karl stepped up his pace. He knew the closest stretch of blacktop in that direction was Little Notch Road, but there were several gravel and dirt roads that led off from it.

With Karl's heightened senses, the five furs might just as well have spray-painted their path in fluorescent orange. He hadn't followed them even a klick when the scents separated into two groups. Three of them cut off in a more westerly direction, while two (including the lion) headed pretty much due north. Karl followed the pair, speeding up to forty klicks when the trail led onto a dirt road.

He had almost made it to the main road when he heard them talking up ahead. He slowed and listened.

"I don't care if Damien offed G.W. or not. The whole thing stinks." That was the fox.

"Will you just shut up and walk!"

He was quiet for a space of six seconds, then said, "Earl, my wife was right. I never shoulda come on this crazy trip."

"If you don't _shut up_, I'll see to it you don't make it back!"

They trudged on in silence. Karl pulled out the gatling pistol and followed. He had closed up to within a dozen meters when the fox spoke again.

"Don't know why you guys had to go and snatch the mouse. He ain't even a . . ."

The lion snarled and fetched him a smack across the snout with the back of his paw, knocking the fox down. "Shut _up_! Shut _up_! Shut _up_! Damn!" But then he noticed the fox wasn't moving. He stepped over and knelt beside the still form. "Nathan? Hey! Nathan!" He shook the fox, but got no movement. "Well, hell, didn't think I hit him **_that_** hard!"

"You didn't."

The lion jumped up and whirled around. The speaker was a lump of greater darkness in the night. And he was a bare two meters away.

"Who are you?"

"Who I am is not important. Why I am here, is."

The lion whipped out a pistol. "What did you do to him?"

The big fur held up the dart gun. "The same thing I could have done to you just as easily." He holstered it with a small shrug.

The lion's confusion level slipped forward a couple of notches. "What do you want?"

"Not much. Only . . . justice."

Through a snarl, the cat said, "Well you waited a little too long for that!"

"I don't think so." Karl took a step forward.

"Hold it! Back off or I'll plug you where you stand!"

"Really? That would be interesting. Why don't you try?"

"You think I won't?"

The big fur pointed at the pistol. "That is a .32 caliber automatic. Muzzle velocity maximum of about three hundred meters per second. Muzzle energy of maybe five hundred newtons."

"Enough to pop your cork!"

"If you feel sure about that, go ahead." And he took another step forward.

The pistol barked when Earl pulled the trigger.

The huge fur didn't even blink.

The lion fired another round, this time at his chest.

Karl's paw flashed out and clenched the gun in the lion's fist, squeezing. Earl gasped and went to his knees.

"Pop my cork, huh? A pawgun this size hardly even gets my attention." He increased the pressure, forming the lion's paw to the contours of the weapon, and all three metatarsals gave way with a short, staccato cracking. Earl screamed and lashed out with his other paw, but Karl caught his forearm and used the limb to batter the side of the lion's head. He bore down on the mewling creature, folding him back on his bent legs.

"You just love to play the big shot, don't you? When you have somefur outnumbered or outgunned, it gives you a rush, doesn't it?" He crushed the lion's paw a little more. The gun's trigger guard cracked with a high-pitched _ping_, but the sound was pretty much lost in the screaming.

The lion was close to fainting. Karl let him go, and he flopped over onto his side, gasping and crying.

"You had every intention of killing and eating a young fellow who is loved by everyone who knows him, a fur who never raised his paw against another without cause. You had never even seen him before, but because you were blinded by hatred, you and a bunch of other maniacs beat him half to death."

Earl held his ruined limb close to his chest in a protective, but careful, embrace. Karl rolled the lion over onto his back and squatted next to him. "Earlier this evening I had definite plans to kill you in retribution for what you did. But a friend of mine talked me out of it. Reminded me that vengeance belongs to God, and that the possibility exists that you might come around to reason some day. So, believe me, you owe him a deep debt of gratitude. That's the only reason you are alive. If it hadn't been for him, I would be stuffing your kidneys down your throat about now." The lion made no answer, the stark terror in his eyes saying everything that needed to be said. Karl pulled out a long, thin rod. "However, I have no good reason to want you conscious, and this is the easiest, most effective way to see to it that you aren't. Too bad for you, it's one of the more painful ones." He pulled the broken pistol out of the remains of the lion's paw, and pitched it away. "Nighty-night."

Twenty seconds later, Karl was jogging back toward the campsite, a limp form dangling off either shoulder.

##


	10. Chapter 4 Confirmations&Questions Part D

**_Chapter Eighteen – Confirmations and Questions – Part D_**

**_. . ._**

**_. . ._**

**_. . ._**

**##**

_** Tuesday 27 September 2016, 9:00pm **_

The five Knights who had chosen to walk out had argued bitterly over which direction to take. None of them had any woodcraft experience. Only two had flashlights. But they ended up splitting anyway.

The marten/fox/bear trio faired poorly, in terms of getting to the road. They walked in a big circle, battling briars and branches, bogs and brooks, eventually coming back to within sight of the camp. When they first spotted the fire, the fox gave the marten a dope slap.

"Knucklehead! I told you that compass wasn't any good!"

"The hell! You didn't have any better ideas, Mr. Einstein."

The bear said, "Cory. Wilson. Both of you shut it. Something's up over there."

They hunkered down into the light underbrush, peering at the camp. Cory spoke first. "What'd they do, Kev, all go to sleep?"

The bear shook his head. "Not thataway, on the bare ground. Besides, there's still two of 'em at the . . . hold it. Them two ain't none of our bunch."

"Shit, Kev, you're right!"

The three furs drew their pistols. "Go easy now," cautioned Kevin. "We gonna find out what's what."

. . .

"You wanna tie 'em up in a bunch, or individually?"

"Better to keep them separate. They might get loose if they can reach each other to cooperate."

"Not with my ropework, they won't. But they will be easier to move one at a time." He selected a limp cougar and started tying. Lee worked on a stocky wolf.

"You think the others got away?"

"Hard to say. If they know the woods, then they probably did. If they're from out of town. . . ." He gave a noncommittal shrug. "Who knows?"

**"Don't neither of ya budge!"**

They froze. Conner looked at Lee as one corner of his mouth cocked up a little. "Guess not."

Lee's eyes flickered to the space between the nearest two trucks. Conner gave an almost imperceptible nod.

The speaker, a large black bear, stepped forth. He was aiming a pistol at them as he spoke. "Looks like you got the drop on my buds. Too bad you're too stupid to catch us all."

The cat and the wolf leapt suddenly toward the trucks. The bear yelled and fired, and another shot came out of the woods behind him.

Lee rolled and came up in a low crouch, pulling his Ruger. He noticed Conner beside him, sitting instead, and asked, "You okay?"

"Eh." He seemed to be examining his leg. Lee noted a dark streak in his fur glinting moist in the firelight.

"You've been shot!"

"Nah. You think this is gettin' shot? This ain't gettin' shot. He just nicked me." He replaced his IR goggles, then peered around, trying to see into the forest. "Wonder how many of 'em there are?"

Two more shots pinged off the truck. Lee said, "Think we ought to try to back out into the forest? Is there enough cover?"

"Probably, if we can make it across that short bare spot." He paused for a moment and closed his eyes, seeming to concentrate. But then he shook his head. "Must be outta range."

"What's out of range?"

"Huh? Eh, nothing. You want to make a run for it?" He took a quick shot at the woods where the bear had retreated.

"Can you run on that leg?"

"You'd be amazed at how fast I can limp. Come on." Rising to a crouch, he tensed and then suddenly popped off a shot over the hood. They heard an agonized howl and a crunch of brush.

Lee tried a grin. "Well, there aren't as many as there were."

"Maybe. Let's go."

But it was not to be.

Wilson wasn't the brightest bulb in the hallway, but he did know how to handle a .45. He had moved around so that he could see down between the trucks, and fired twice when he saw the pair rise to go. They both jerked and fell.

"Hey, Kev, I got 'em! I got 'em!"

The bear called back, "Damn good thing! They shot Cory. Damn near blew his arm off."

Lee's chest was one big ache. The force of the slug had splashed a good bit, thanks to the impact shroud, but it had rung his bell, nonetheless. He turned his head, trying to focus on Conner.

Wilson walked up. "You sonsabitches didn't make out as good as you thought, didja?" He leveled his pistol at Conner's head.

Lee tried to sit up, to reach for the marten, to interpose himself, but he hadn't recovered sufficiently, and just sort of flopped over. Wilson took a step back and redirected his aim. "Fine. Doesn't matter to me which one of you dies first." He sighted on Lee's nose.

An intense, high, thrumming whine assailed Lee's ears, and he struggled to clamp his paws over them. He chanced to be facing the marten just then, so he saw what happened, and stared in horror as Wilson's torso was disassembled, instantly and messily. At the same time, behind Lee, the left-side windows and the windshield of one crew-van exploded into millions of fragments.

The hideous, grating noise lasted for only a few seconds, and then the blessed silence of the forest poured back in.

"Wilson! Wilson! What was that? Wilson! Where'd you go?" Kevin came running over, gun in paw.

From a goodly distance, Karl's booming voice proclaimed, "Freeze and drop the gun or I'll carve you up where you stand."

Kevin had caught sight of what remained of Wilson, and his jaw dropped open. Slowly, the pistol slipped from nerveless fingers, then he raised his arms high. He couldn't tear his eyes away from the bloody pudding that had been his friend.

At length Lee achieved a seated position and scooted over to Conner. Blood was leaking steadily from a long gash on the side of his head. Lee probed the wound, sighing in relief when he determined it was just a graze. The big wolf was not seriously hurt, but he _was_ seriously unconscious.

"What . . . What . . . happened?" The bear finally said something.

Karl made his appearance at that juncture, running up with both the lion and the fox over his left shoulder, his rail gun in his right paw. "I'll be happy to explain. Your partner here was about to kill my friends. I found that prospect to be without merit, and decided to stop him. Regrettably, the only long-range weapon I had with me can't be set to 'stun'." He held up Sleet, pointed in the other fur's general direction. The bear's jaw trembled.

Karl dumped the two furs, pulled out the scrambler, and said, "On the other paw, there are any number of methods I can use put you out at close range."

The bear's trembling increased measurably. He turned to bolt, but Karl jumped on his back, slamming his face into the ground. The wolverine leaned down next to Kevin's ear and whispered, "You know, I think I would have tried running, too." Then he jammed the scrambler into the back of the purist's neck.

"Hey, Karl!"

The big fur trotted over. "Yes, Lee?"

There's one more, over that way. Conner got him in the arm, I think."

"I'll look. You okay?"

"Yeah. Don't think anything's broken, but I'll be stiff as a statue in the morning. He must have had heavy loads in that thing."

"I'm glad you decided to keep wearing the shroud," Karl called over his shoulder as he jogged over to the edge of the trees.

_So am I, my friend._ He winced as he got up, but pulled Conner back over next to the fire, disregarding the pain in his ribs.

Karl found the fur in question, but determined very quickly that there was nothing to be done for him. Conner's .454 had still been loaded with the mercury-filled slugs, and the damage to the fox's shoulder and upper arm had been so heavy that he had bled out. Karl closed the corpse's eyes and hurried back to Lee.

"How's Mr. von Trapp?"

"Out. Took a graze to the head." He gave a little, lopsided smile. "I guess now he knows what it feels like when he does it to someone else."

"An experience the usefulness of which he may call into question." He bent and lifted the big wolf. "Can you walk, or would you like a ride?"

"I'll manage. I'm just glad I don't have to carry _him_ all the way back to the truck." Lee looked pointedly at the two furs Karl had packed in with him and asked, "Are you at all winded from that exertion?"

"No."

"Just how strong are you, anyway?"

"Strong enough for the task at paw. Shall we go?" He took off, and Lee followed.

As they made their way back to where they'd parked, Lee asked, "Your strength isn't one hundred percent natural, is it?"

"What difference does it make?"

"None I guess. It's just my feline curiosity kicking in. I have never met anyfur with your abilities before. Knowing that you were a field operative, I thought it feasible that you may have had some special training, or possibly even cybernetic implants."

Karl didn't respond.

"I don't mean to pry. It's personal, I know. And I get the impression that you harbor some sad memories from that time."

After trudging along in silence for a minute, Karl said, "I wasn't the strongest member of the team."

Lee stared at the big fur's back. "You're kidding."

"No. I'm not." He slowed to allow Lee to come alongside. "You are correct about the memories. I was involved in a lot of things I don't like to reminisce about. And I don't talk about them very often, or to very many furs. My pastor knows my story, and some of the elders are aware of the gist of what I used to be, but that's it."

"That's understandable."

"But you have a unique perspective on things, Lee, and tonight you have demonstrated that you will go to the mat for what you believe. So I will answer your question."

"You don't have to. It is, after all, not my business."

"You took a chance when you followed me, a chance you didn't have to take, and you got shot for your trouble. You pulled out all the stops to turn me away from a path that I know now I would have regretted. You could have died, but your faith wouldn't let you let me go. I owe you something for that. I think answering your question is only fair."

"I see. Well. If you feel **_that_** way about it, okay."

Karl chose his words carefully. "We were an anti-terrorism weapon. A small group, but the best on the planet at what we did. Strikes of surgical precision, get in, get done, and get out. We were a very tightly knit bunch, and a lot of it had to do with the fact that each of us was unique. You are right in that many of my abilities are not 'natural'. We all underwent an enhancement process that I won't go into. The less you know about that, the better."

"Not entirely legal, I take it?"

"Not in any respect. But there are lots of agencies of the government who have flouted the law from time to time, so it was nothing new."

_Boy, can I ever relate to that._ "You said you weren't the strongest on the team?"

"No. Two of my comrades were stronger, one much more so. That's how they ranked us: Alpha, Beta, Gamma, which was yours truly, Delta, then Rho and Sigma. Four males, two females."

"There were only _six_ of you on the team?"

"Well, six on the actual strike force. We had a plethora of support furs."

"Oh. That would be sensible."

"It was necessary. We couldn't exactly _walk_ wherever we were needed, and not just anyone could give us the kind of support we required. So a special task group was formed." He glanced over at Lee. "You ever hear of Omicron Platoon?"

Lee frowned in thought. ". . . . . Nnnnno. Not offpaw. Why, was that the name of the group?"

"Yes. So if you ever do come across a reference to it, pretend you still don't know anything. It would be healthier for you."

"Sounds like you have some dangerous enemies."

"I do. On both sides. That's why I chose to retire."

"That's an odd phraseology."

He shrugged. "It's apt. I had a long and bloody career behind me when I settled here six years ago." He chuckled softly. "But that's off-topic. You wanted to know about strength, so here's the skinny. I can get almost a ton over my head. I can handle six or seven hundred kilos without any real problems. And I can walk around with four hundred all day."

Lee let loose with a low whistle.

Karl said, "That's nothing, though. Beta was half again that strong, maybe more. He was a touchy sort, and wasn't interested in 'stupid contests' as he called them, so we were never really sure. And Alpha had three times my strength, at least. I once saw him stop an armored troop carrier by pitching a Jeep through its windshield."

"A _**Jeep**_!"

"Mm-hmm. Of course, he was a lot bigger than I am."

Lee goggled at him.

"Yep. Over a head taller, and about twice my weight, and believe me, none of it was soft. Hey, there's the ATV." He pointed ahead, and they picked up the pace.

"What species is he?"

"Was, not is. He was a grizzly. Nice guy. Played a good game of poker. Took a very pragmatic view of our missions, unlike Beta. That cat _lived_ for the chance to kill, even more than I did. You see, I had a grudge. I was in it for revenge. But he just liked to kill."

_Revenge, huh?_ "So Alpha is dead?"

"Yes. They all are. I'm the last of the old guard."

"They all die in combat?"

Karl pursed his lips, but didn't say anything right away. They had arrived at the vehicles: he popped the latch on the second door and laid Conner out on the seat. Lee scrambled back into the passenger seat, and shortly they were heading back to the hospital.

Karl said, "Not that I expect Conner to see the humor in the situation right off the bat, but don't you think it ironic that he's on his way to the hospital after carrying Martin in earlier this evening?"

Lee nodded, half a grin curling his muzzle. "Oh, I'm sure he'll think it's funny. A year from now, maybe."

Karl never did answer Lee's last question.

##

_** Wednesday 28 September 2016, 3:50am **_

"Sylvia? Can you give me a paw here?"

"Yeah, Jeremy?" The lean cottontail joined him in front of the door. "Problem?"

"It won't open."

"Some lock-picker you are."

He snorted. "The lock I can't pick hasn't been invented. It's the door itself that's stuck. It seems to have been glued."

"Is the alarm system deactivated?"

He held up a small, square device, showing her the display. "It didn't even have one."

"So break it down."

He peered up at her, giving her a glare. "You're a real riot, Sylvilagus."

"Oh, all right. Move, then."

The tiny hyrax backed away down the hall a few meters. Sylvia centered and grounded, and then placed both paws on the wood. She closed her eyes, concentrating for a quarter-minute, as a faint glow outlined the door. Finally she stepped back, gazed at the stubborn portal for a moment, and then launched a powerful kick.

Most of the door fell over into the room, tiny bits of it spraying from the edges like sawdust. Half a second later, she cursed softly as she jerked two slim pistols from the holsters on her thighs. Jeremy copied the motion almost as quickly.

"What's wrong?"

She held her pose for a couple of seconds, then hopped forward into the room. He dashed the few meters to the door and looked in, his mouth falling open.

The place was littered with corpses. Jeremy did a quick tally: eleven of them. One with half his chest blown away, but the rest didn't have a mark . . . no, wait. One of them was missing an ear.

The hyrax remarked wryly, "Looks like somebody beat us to it, m'friend."

Sylvia was checking the bodies. "These furs are alive, Jer."

"Alive? You sure?"

"Unless corpses have heartbeats." She did a quick exam of the gunshot victim. "Well, this one's gone." She pulled out her comm unit.

"Duh. Look at the damage."

She was speaking into the communicator. "Captain Latrans? Yes, sir, this is Lieutenant Sylvilagus. Somefur got here ahead of us, it looks like. . . . . . Eh, maybe. I'll check and see. . . . . . Vigilante or former victim, I'd say. Unless it was an inside job. Bunch of the purists laid out like cordwood. . . . . . No, sir, I'm sure. I recognize three of them from the profiles. . . . . . No, no dead ones except for one who looks like he caught a stray blast from a shotgun. . . . . . Let me look."

She rummaged through the pockets of the nearest one and brought forth his PA. "Son of a gun. Looks like pay dirt after all, unless they've been erased. Let's see . . . . . Nope, the data looks to be intact. Heck, this is a windfall. . . . . . Yes, sir, better send a wagon around. A couple of them. . . . . . Right. We'll be here. Thank you, sir. Out."

She turned to the hyrax with a sigh. "They'll be here in fifteen."

"Why so glum, Rusty? Looks like the good ol' DoD might be in for a spot of luck for once."

"I dunno, Jer. This doesn't feel right for some reason. Why would anyfur go to the trouble of taking out a leader cell, but not go ahead and kill them all, or at least take the PA's?"

He shrugged. "Someone who wasn't looking for the same things we are."

She had no immediate response to that.

##

_** 8:10am **_

Michael Truefoot hit the door to his suite and slammed up against the wood, then twisted the knob a little more so it would open. He rubbed his shoulder ruefully, thinking, "_Those things work __**so**__ much better when you turn them._"

He walked through the outer room where his secretary, Vivien Onca, sat, and noticed immediately that she wasn't at her desk. _That's odd. She's always here by a quarter till._ He went on into his office to check his messages. The jaguar femme had missed exactly one day of work in the nearly two years she'd worked for him, and had made sure to let him know why through several avenues.

But there was no message. He turned on his computer . . . . . or tried to.

"What's up with this?" He checked the machine over, pulling out the workstation's box. Then he sat back, his eyes wide. The back cover was off, and much of the inside was slag. He considered the problem for twenty seconds or so, then got up and went over to a decorative light fixture in the corner. It had six large, metallic globes depending from thin, curved rods, with floodlights inside each. He reached up into the second one from the top and pulled out a remote surveillance camera. This he pocketed before opening his PA. He hit two buttons and waited while the other end rang.

"Hey, Cal. You at the office yet? . . . . . Good. Come on over to mine. And bring your remote reader. . . . . . Nope. My box is trashed. I think she may have figured out that I was on to her game. . . . . . Okay. See you in a few." He folded it back up and slipped it into his coat.

_Well, Viv, I wonder what it was that I did to tip you off._

##

_** 2:00pm **_

About ten clicks west by northwest of Boston, near Arlington, in a quiet neighborhood, there is an old house about a block off of Massachusetts Avenue. A traditional two-story Victorian, complete with cream-colored gingerbread, widow's walk, and verdigris weather vanes, it fits the atmosphere well. The residents are mainly 'DINKs', and so during the day hardly a soul is about ... which makes the number of vehicles lined up along the street that much more unusual.

Inside, the house is just as elegant. Tastefully, if sparsely furnished. Half of the second floor had been converted into a single, large recreational space at some time in the past, and it is in this room that the visitors have gathered.

They are a diverse group. Four continents and nine countries are represented within the even score of furs. They are tall and short, stocky and slight, male and femme. They have little in common except for a love of power and a lack of compunction in obtaining it. It is only the monomaniacal pursuit of that goal that brought them together in the first place, and this is the first time all of them have shared the same air in several years. Trust occupies no place in their relationships. They stay apart in little groups, whispering and fidgeting. But this afternoon they will learn that they have one other thing in common as well.

A tawny fennec fox stepped into the room, causing most of the others to turn and look at him. He didn't acknowledge them with so much as a nod, but walked straight over to the two-meter flat-screen entertainment module on the long wall, and picked up the remote. He turned back to them, fixing them with a steely eye.

A gangly cheetah spoke up. "Okay, Hamad, we're here. You planning to keep us in suspense all day?"

He said nothing for a moment, but then replied, "No suspense Raoul. Just vindication."

That brought him several frowns and a mutter or two.

A short, thin genet femme said, "You aren't still going on about that wolverine, are you?"

He stared at her, venom dripping from his gaze. But he made no answer. He merely pointed the remote at the screen and hit the button. The unit flickered to life, and there on the panel was a three-quarter profile view of a gigantic wolverine. A petite vixen stood beside him, back to the camera.

Several gasps echoed in the room, but someone said. "Hah! File photo time, Hamad?"

"No. I got this off the website of _**Vermont**_ magazine. Current issue. They did a spread on the covered bridges in the state, and filmed these two while taking pictures of the bridge."

The group crowded closer, examining the likeness. One of them said, "How can it possibly be that he did not die? I saw the explosion myself."

"I do not know. What I _do_ know is that the fur you see there is the same one I encountered in New York, and I never forget a voice." His oversized ears flicked back and forth as he pinned the speaker with his eye. "Never. That fur is Gamma. I will stake my life on it."

Several comments floated around: "So he is alive." "That does look like him. I should know." "But how _can_ it be?"

Hamad held up a paw for silence. "I called each of you because I know that Gamma cost everyone in this room something precious. A friend, an organization, a fortune . . ." He paused and swallowed. "A brother."

"Where is he?"

"I am not sure. I suspect his base is in the Northeast now. Maybe New York, Vermont, or New Hampshire. Or possibly Massachusetts. That, we will find out. But I put to you now the question: Should he be allowed to live?"

Someone murmured, "But can we even kill him?"

"I think we can. He has not followed the hunt for years. He may be getting too old, or he may have lost the stomach for it."

A snort came from the middle of the group. "Not him."

"It does not matter. My question remains. Should he die, or should we allow him to live?"

"He should die," came from several furs. Loudly, in a few cases. And shortly all heads were nodding.

"Then we must find him." Hamad looked around the assembled furs. "Alert your networks. Call in your favors. Whatever it takes. We must not rest until he lies in pieces at our feet." He turned back to the screen, staring at it in vitriolic hatred. "We _will_ find him."

##

_** Montana wilderness – mid-evening **_

For anyone who has never seen the Big Sky country, there is no adequate description that will impart any sense of how high, wide, and handsome the landscape is, so no attempt at description will be given here. Suffice to say that the grandeur of the place makes one feel almost microscopically insignificant. A clear, night only serves to magnify the effect.

Near the fringe of a run of pine, fir, and juniper, on a thick base of fallen needles, sat a tent, lit by lantern glow. A shadow-show of lines and figures played across its surface as the occupants moved about their tasks.

"Hey, Jimbo, got any of that coffee left?"

"Yeah, maybe one cup and the dregs. You want it?"

"If it's still hot." The puma held out his tin cup to his hunting partner.

"Not to worry, Dave, it's hot. Watch out you don't burn your lip on it." He used a folded towel to lift the pot from the bed of coals in the brazier, his ursine countenance screwed into a squint of concentration as he poured. "That's one more thing I won't miss about roughing it when we get back to Joplin: crunchy coffee."

"Yeah. Hasn't been what I'd call a real fun week."

"Hmph. I wouldn't mind the rain and cold if we'd managed to kill anything."

"Not rainin' now. Hasn't rained all day."

"And we didn't see any game all day."

"Yeah. Pisser."

Dave nursed his coffee, sipping it judiciously, and saying nothing more. They had the kind of solid, free and easy friendship that would allow for long stretches of silence in complete comfort. Stretches of silence that might last, oh, three or four days.

Jim took out his rifle and started disassembling it for cleaning. Dave finished his coffee and got his bedroll ready.

"Wanna check the fire?"

The puma nodded once and stepped outside into the penetrating cold. There wasn't much wind, but there didn't have to be with temperatures hovering around twenty below Celsius. He quickly banked up the remainder of the glowing coals and hurried back into the tent.

He zipped up the outer shell and patted at his arms. "Freeze the balls off a brass monkey."

"Hm."

"Think I'll turn in."

"Hm." Jim got another frown on his face and sniffed the air. "You let one, Dave?"

"Not me. Smeller's the feller." But then he got a funny look on his own face and wrinkled up his nose. "Yuck. That a skunk?"

"Uhh . . . smells more like burnin' garbage than a skunk. Stinks like hell though. You wanna check it out?"

"Hell, no! I did the fire. It's your turn to . . ."

At that point the conversation ceased, as one side of the tent was ripped violently open.

The intruder was bipedal. Beyond that, they couldn't make anything out, visually. But the stench was bad enough to bring tears to their eyes. Both furs jumped to their feet, and a very short skirmish ensued.

Jim lashed out at the figure with the barrel of his rifle but it was jerked out of his paws and came crashing back into the side of his head, knocking him cold.

Dave slashed at the dark shape, cutting a long, deep gash in its torso, but it didn't seem to notice. It struck with one bony paw, batting the knife away, and then grabbing the puma by the throat. His air was suddenly closed off, the windpipe nearly crushed. Dave tried to use his claws, but couldn't seem to make any impression in the long fur of its arm. As his struggles grew feebler, the thing reached down and got a grip around Jim's throat as well, picking him up, then lifting both furs until their feet dangled.

One of the last things that registered on Dave's perception as his vision faded was a flickering black nimbus of energy limning the creature's form. He did not understand it, but he feared it, more than he feared the nightmare being who held him. As consciousness failed and slipped away, the iridescent blackness seemed to flow, a greasy, questing, gelatinous tentacle seeking and finding the mouth, the nose, the ears, slipping in and probing deep, and sucking.

And a wind that had no part in natural weather patterns slapped and shuddered briefly around the tableau as the hunters' life essences were stripped from them.

A low whine escaped the dark creature's muzzle, subservient and questioning.

**. . . . . . .**

**_NOW YOU MAY FEED_**

**. . . . . . .**

The coiling, clutching black glow winked out. The wolf dropped one corpse and began gnawing ravenously on the other, oblivious of the cold, his wound, or his unclothed condition.

Gradually, the stench dissipated, and had faded completely before his grisly meal was done.

##


	11. Chapter 5 Life, Love & Hot Sauce Part A

**_Chapter Five – Life, Love, and Hot Sauce – Part A_**

**_. . ._**

**_. . ._**

**_. . ._**

**For all your days, prepare,  
****and meet them ever alike;  
****When you are the anvil, bear –  
****when you are the hammer, strike.**

_-Edwin Markham_

##

_** Friday 30 September 2016, 9:55am **_

When the nurse on duty came in to check Martin's chart, Samantha looked over at her and said, "Cecily?"

"Hmm?"

"How long is it now?"

The tabby cat sighed. She had seen many, many situations just like this one, and did her very best to maintain an even, professional distance without getting crabby or snappish. But sometimes it was more than a little taxing. "It's eight minutes later than the last time you asked, Sam."

The black vixen huddled into the hard, plastic chair. Turning back to the bed, she again examined the quiet form that lay thereon.

Martin was still getting an oxygen assist, to help speed the healing process. His arms were held to his sides by several wrappings of gauze, both to prevent him from tearing the sutures around his gunshot wound, and to give his dislocated shoulders time to readjust. (To date, it had not been an issue, as he had not yet offered to move anything.) His paws were great, knobby masses, a shell of plastic enclosing a thick layer of heavy, regenerative biogel. Similar dressings covered his chest, where the fur had been shaved away to expose the burns. His right leg was in a cast from mid-thigh to toes. But what worried Samantha was that he had not yet regained consciousness.

Brain activity was normal for a fur of his species in a dormant state. The EEG scale went from five (borderline low) to fifteen (a normal, wide-awake level). His registered a consistent nine or ten. Not a coma, exactly, but not good enough to wake up.

She reached out a trembling paw and smoothed the headfur back, carefully so as not to put any pressure on the bruises. She repeated the motion several more times while a tear worked its way through the fur on her cheek, following its many brothers to drop onto the white, white linen.

The door swung open briskly as Sabrina backed into the room, carrying a Styrofoam cup in each paw. She walked up to Samantha and offered her the cold drink.

The girl took it absently, and held it in her lap. Sabrina laid her arm on her daughter's shoulder and took a sip of the soda.

"Why won't he wake up, Mom?"

The skunkette swallowed and said, "It hasn't really been that long, dear. The anesthesia won't even be fully out of his system until this evening."

Samantha leaned over and laid her head on the thin pillow beside the dormouse.

Sabrina gave her shoulder a little squeeze and said, "Why don't you come have some breakfast, honey? You need to keep up your strength if you're going to be holding vigil."

Her voice small, the black vixen answered, "In a few minutes. Okay? I'll be down in a few minutes."

Sabrina tried to hide her worried sigh as she patted her daughter's arm. "All right, honey. Just a few minutes?"

Samantha nodded.

Sabrina stroked her headfur once, and followed the nurse out into the hall. The door swung closed silently.

Sam reached down and placed her drink, untasted, on the floor beside the chair, never taking her eyes off his still-swollen face.

"I'm so sorry, Martin. It's all my fault, and I'm so … so terribly sorry."

Her shoulders began to shake softly as she cried into the pillow.

##

_** 6:50pm **_

Michael opened the curbside doors for his dinner guests as they crossed the sidewalk to the car. Cinnamon gave him a warm smile as she slid into the passenger seat. Emily said, "Thank 'ou!" and bounced into the back of the sedan. The bear closed both doors and trotted around to the driver's side, and shortly they were off.

"We had poccorn today, Mr. Mike!"

"You did? What kind?"

"Was it car'mel, Mom? It was sticky." She bounced on the springy seat, playing with the wire puzzle Cinnamon had bought for her.

"Yes, sweetie, it was caramel." She turned to Michael and said, in a very low voice, "Five, count 'em, _five_ trips to the bathroom to wash those paws of hers."

"Ha! Had Velcro-fingers, did she?"

"And how."

"I forgot to ask. Is Chinese okay with you?"

She nodded. "Sure, as long as I can get vegetarian."

"No problem, then."

She tugged at his sleeve. "So, tell me about it! What's gonna happen to 'em?"

"Who? You mean the Knights?"

"Duh."

He got a _very_ satisfied grin on his face. "They're being shut down, that's what. I tell you, if Mr. von Trapp would agree to it, I'd have him on my staff full time. The information he got from John Damien was absolutely priceless. Name lists for special operations, rosters, addresses, account numbers, dates, places . . . it was all there. That fur was totally paranoid, wouldn't trust anyone to keep track of anything for him, so he kept all the records himself. What a colossal screw-up! We even got records of two professional hits _besides_ the attempt on the Foxxes. So far we have about six thousand years worth of sentences lined up for him, and it'll all be in solitary."

"Too bad we couldn't bring back the death penalty for about two minutes."

"No, it's not. This is better. Now, don't look at me like that! You know I'm right."

"That dirtbag deserves to fry," she insisted. "And _you_ know _I'm_ right!"

"That's beside the point. There is a higher probability of keeping him off the street this way. Look, getting a jury to recommend the death penalty was never easy in the first place, and then the verdict would get tied up in appeals for eight or ten or twelve years, and in about a fifth of those cases the guy would get off anyway on a technicality. But juries – and judges, too – are a lot more inclined to heap on the years for someone who really deserves it. It's not so much an exercise of conscience, then. They don't worry about the finality of it, the problem of 'what if he's really innocent?' or 'can I live with myself after condemning another fur to death?' or any of that. They'll see the horrible things he's done, and stick him under the jail for keeps."

"If you say so."

He gave her a sideways smile. "It's not a perfect world, Cinnamon. We do the best we know how."

She reached over and patted his shoulder. "And you do a very good job. I should be more grateful." She left her paw where it was.

He smiled a little, enjoying the slight weight of her paw. "I'm used to it. Comes with the territory."

Emily said, "Are we dhere yet?"

"You hungry, Little Lady?"

"Pretty hung'y now. We dhere yet?"

"Not yet, but soon." He looked over at Cinnamon and asked, "Is she vegetarian, too?"

"Nope. Little opportunist will eat just about anything. Loves nuts. Loves poultry. _Really_ loves cheese. Does a pretty good job with her fruit and veggies, too." She gave him an expectant look. "What about the rest of the bad guys?"

"Well, we have enough solid, and I mean _solid_ evidence to declare the Knights of the Pure Strain a seditious organization, and disband them under the Second Homeland Defense Act. They have ties to several terrorist groups, and have been implicated in almost a hundred murders and over five hundred cases of assault. Plus, they've gone after the governmental infrastructure in six states. By the way, the National Guard found Clarisse Jensen."

"Who?"

"The daughter of the governor of . . ."

". . . governor of Oregon! Of course. Had my brain off for a second there. Is she okay?"

His muzzle twisted. "Depends on how you define 'okay'."

"Oh." She glanced at the back seat. "Sounds like a topic for later."

"Right. Last I heard, Governor Jensen had called in a specialist, some famous psychologist by the name of Wolff. British fellow, but has his practice here in the States. A peer of the realm, if you can believe it. Supposed to be able to work wonders with victims of trauma." He turned left into the parking lot of the restaurant, and taxied slowly down the lane, looking for a space. "Anyway, we have arrest warrants out for close to two thousand Purebreds, and over four hundred of the most hostile ones in custody already." He paused, grinned, and glanced at her. "Caught nearly fifty of them just yesterday trying to get across into Canada. The FIA has been involved for a while now, and after Mr. Luscus turned in that last bunch of leads they really stepped it up. Between them and the DoD, it shouldn't be too much longer before this whole, ugly mess gets wrapped up."

"Hallelujah! Can't come too soon for me."

"Same here." He parked, helped the femmes out of the car, and then he and Cinnamon, arm in arm, followed a skipping, dancing, gyrating little girl into the Fu Lin Yu Palace.

##

_** 9:40pm **_

State Highway 100 travels the length of Vermont north to south, dividing it roughly in half. For about forty kilometers along the route, it borders the eastern edge of the Green Mountain National Forest. At the southern end of the forest, south of the town of Pittsfield, the road parallels the Tweed River as it passes through a section of the undeveloped land between Mount Carmel and Sable Mountain. With the exception of furs planning to hike the Long Trail through the forest (or the occasional poacher), folks don't come this way to stop. They come this way to get to somewhere else. Most of the time.

Tonight, however, in an abandoned house not too far from the Chittenden Reservoir, a group of furs has gathered. Weary, dirty, and unkempt, they are most of what is left of the northeast leadership of the Knights of the Pure Strain. Those present are the ones who did not hold implicit, blind trust in Red Jack's handling of matters pertaining to the late unpleasantness, those who had managed to keep their own records and to run their own pieces of the organization with a measure of independence. Those with a little pluck and foresight.

You know: the dangerous kind.

A pair of kerosene lanterns shed light on the assembled furs, nine in all. Nine tired, restless carnivores. Nine frightened individuals who were all that remained of a cadre of leaders that had been some two hundred strong less than two weeks ago. The feds had trailed them relentlessly, somehow always knowing where they would go, who they had contacted, what their next moves were to be. These, the survivors, the ones smart enough or fast enough or lucky enough to slip through the myriad nets, had devised their own methods of communication, and had deduced what the others would do. But now, they felt very much trapped. Their likenesses had been all over the televised newscasts, and graced every post office and retail outlet and most of the utility poles in the state. Though several of them had money, it did them little good, as every convenience store clerk in the northeast would recognize them on sight, and they had narrowly escaped capture more than once. Their last few meals had been obtained at gunpoint, but the powers that be were close now. Very close. The Purebreds had access to water, but little in the way of food, and to top it off a major cold front was coming through. It would get well below freezing this night.

They huddled around the small fireplace, most not talking, and stewed in their own anger. By now the names 'Evans' and 'Foxx' and 'Luscus' and 'O'Musca' were indelibly etched in each mind, and their inability to accomplish anything in the way of revenge was galling them. That so few, so pitifully few furs could have been the linchpins in the machine that brought down the Knights was _intolerable_! But they were powerless to exact even the tiniest bit of retribution.

It was at that point that the call sounded outside, and a quarter-minute later the big jaguar walked in.

"It's Grosvenor." "Hey, thought they got him!" "Yeah, I even saw it on the news." "Musta got loose."

He was wearing a large pack and a larger frown. He shrugged out of the duffle and passed it to one of them, saying, "You boys must be hungry. Why don't you divvy that up. Then we can talk."

The pack turned out to contain three dozen MRE's in self-heating packaging. The group quickly dug in, and in less than fifteen minutes they were feeling decidedly more congenial. Grosvenor stood back up, his face grim, his eyes as flat and devoid of emotion as a shark's.

"If any of you is at all interested in getting some payback, I'll be leaving in the morning. Whoever wants to is welcome to come along."

A lean Siamese asked, "What you got cookin', Grosvenor? You get some inside info?"

He nodded. "Vivien … Vivien managed to pass several messages along to me before … before they got her." He closed his eyes, drew a deep breath, and continued. "The scumbreds are planning a get-together. All the ones who screwed us. It's a party to celebrate their …" Here, his muzzle drew up in a sour grimace. "… their 'victory' over the 'forces of evil'."

There was a muttering of curses. He held up a paw to still them, and said, "It'll take place three weeks from tomorrow. I'll be crashing that party so that it _stays_ crashed. Permanently."

The ragged bunch looked around at each other, resolve growing in every face. To a fur they declared their support.

The jaguar nodded. "Tomorrow, then. Better get some sleep. Lots to do. We leave early."

##

_** Saturday 01 October 2016, 9:50am **_

Karl came up to the front of the Shop at the summons of the doorbell, sighing to himself when he caught sight of his customer. Red Raines was one of the very few furs he had ever met who could stand flat-footed and look him in the eye. But then, taurs of any kind were rare, and fox-taurs rarer than most.

The huge alopecoid morph reached around and pulled a pair of motors out of one of his saddlebags, plopping them down on the counter. "Burned up another set. What ya think? More power?"

Karl shook his head, "No. You need integrated-drive gearmotors and a PLC with PID adaptive feedback, instead of all those relays, as I told you last time."

Red got a sour look on his face. "Ayah, 'at's what ya said. Still don't think it 'ud work."

Karl shrugged. "You know what they say. The stingy fur always pays the most." Mr. Raines usually sported an attitude, and today was no different. He never took advice well, believing his own plans and decisions to be superior to any other. If he ever _did_ adopt the central-controller approach, he would find some way to convince himself it had been his idea.

"Hmh. Ya got any twelve-hundred-watt explosion-proofs in stock?"

"Sure, if you want to pay that much for them. But you could get by fine with a motor a third that size if you just used a controller that …"

"Never mind that. I'll take two." He opened his wallet and extracted six one-hundred dollar bills.

Karl spent some twenty seconds back in the shelves, and returned with a pair of large boxes, which he traded for the bills. As he was giving Red his change, the fox-taur observed, "See ya open just half-days. How's young Martin doin'?"

"He hasn't regained consciousness yet. The paw specialist will be here this afternoon to do a preliminary, but she needs for him to be awake to complete the evaluation."

"Has my sympathies. He's a good boy." And with that he put his purchase in a saddlebag and trotted out the door.

_Yes, Red, he __is__ a good boy._ Karl stared at the front door for several moments. He walked over to the entrance, stepped outside, and flipped the sign around to say 'CLOSED'. Then he locked up, climbed back upstairs and brought up the display on his computer. He'd had it running a very specific, very cryptic search program for the last forty-two hours, and he checked it twice an hour to see what it had found. But the screen was still blank.

With a frustrated sigh, he sat back and cogitated, going over his various options. After a few moments, he got out a long-range pager and set it up to let him know when the search program hit upon something, slipped it into a pocket, and headed down to the garage.

##

_** 11:45am **_

Chris, taking a break in one of the huge, overstuffed chairs in the lobby waiting room, spotted Karl the moment he walked in and got up to greet him.

"Hey. Come to see Martin, I guess?"

"Yes, I have. Is he still in ICU?"

Chris nodded. "But they're making noises about moving him into a regular room tomorrow. He's a tough little guy!"

"That he is. Resilience fortifies every cell in his body." Karl eyed him and asked, "You've been away from home this whole week. You were planning to go back Wednesday, weren't you?"

"Yeah." He vented a sigh, and said, "I'm gonna have to get back to the office REAL SOON, before they figure out they can get along fine without me."

"But you are staying for Samantha's sake?"

The fox nodded, his face glum. "Through the weekend. Figure I owe her that much. If I hadn't told the guards we didn't want to see _anybody_, Martin wouldn't be . . ."

Karl held up a paw. "Chris, please don't do that to yourself. I spent the first half of this week in self-flagellation for much the same reasons, and it is no more true for you than for me. Martin made his own decisions. And _none_ of us asked for the purists to get involved. What's done is done, the past is set. What matters is what we do henceforth." He laid a massive, reassuring paw on the fox's shoulder. "And I have a feeling Martin is going to come out of this a whole furson. Have faith."

"I hope you're right." Chris pulled out his watch and examined the face. "I'd better get Samantha. She'd camp out up there if I let her."

"I'll walk with you."

"Thanks." They headed for the elevator.

After tapping the 'UP' button, Karl asked, "Has Siobhan been in today?"

"She's up there now. Her and a few furs from her church."

"Good. That would be the board of elders. They wanted to come by and pray for Martin again."

The doors opened and they stepped in, selecting the third floor. "Well, he can sure use it. I'm getting a little nervous about brain damage, I don't care _what_ the doctor said. He should at least be _starting_ to wake up by now."

Karl didn't say anything to that.

When they exited the elevator, they could see the two State Troopers who had been assigned to guard Martin standing by his door. The room, itself, was too crowded for them anyway. Samantha had stubbornly stayed at the bedside, but Pastor Grey and six of the elders surrounded it completely. The tall squirrel was holding paws and talking with Siobhan in low tones, and it was apparent that the group was preparing to leave, so Karl and Chris waited in the hall. And in a few minutes, the parishioners did, indeed, file out, most of them shaking Karl's paw as they passed.

Chris went over to Samantha and stroked her headfur. "Sweetie? We need to get you some lunch." One of the floor nurses had followed him in and was going over Martin's meds and chart.

Sam had her hair put up into a snood to keep it out of her way. Her facial fur was more than a little bedraggled, but her gaze was steadfast on Martin. "Okay, Dad. Could you bring me a sandwich?"

"Uhh. … Well, I was kinda hoping _you'd_ join _me_."

"I'd really like to be here when he wakes up, Dad." Her low voice was a bit tremulous.

"Honey, I don't think he'll suddenly pop out of it while you go grab a bite." He got the nurse's attention. "Any change?"

She shook her head soberly.

Siobhan reached across the bed and laid a paw on one of Samantha's. "I be a-watchin' me boy, lass, so doon werry. 'Tis a' right. Ye best go an' eat."

"But …"

"We'll come back this afternoon, hon. Promise. Okay?"

She looked up at her father then. "… Okay." She rose and gathered her jacket, brushing Martin's headfur very lightly, eyes shining with unshed tears. They turned and left together.

After a few moments, Siobhan said, "Tha' lass has n' slept more than an hour or two in days. She'll no' be well i' she keeps tha' pace up."

"I know, Siobhan, but she is grieving. Each of us handles these circumstances differently. She's young and strong. She'll make do."

"Aye, strength she has, and tha's the truth of it." She eased back in her own chair. "Would tha' these owd bones were as spry."

Karl walked around to her side and laid an arm across her shoulders. "You bear your burden well, Mrs. O'Musca."

"Hmh. 'Tis a burden jist t' live some days. An' don' ye be thinkin' th' thought o' chuckin' th' whole mess hasn' crossed me mind more nor once." She looked up at the huge fur soberly. "After me Martin wis killed, I walked many a dark path, callin' down God's wrath on them as did it, d'spairin' o' life, prayin' f'r release, wantin' t' know why. Why him? Why me good Martin?" She looked back to the bed, tenderly stroking the fur on her eldest son's cheek. "But the Almighty's ways be not our ways. And as He said, 'In this world ye will have trouble. But take heart, for I have overcome the world.' An' so it is." She bent over the edge of the bed and closed her eyes. Karl bowed with her, and they prayed silently for a few minutes.

When she was done, Siobhan got to her feet and caught Karl's eye. "I think it be good to follow Mr. Foxx's example an' go after a bite. Be ye hungered, Karl?"

"You know me. I like to get my regular eight meals a day."

She patted him on the arm, a distant look settling onto her features. "I would there wis a good hospital closer than this. It pains me t' have t' put the Grey's out wi' me boys. They can be a pawful."

The rapid change of subject gave Karl a few seconds' pause, but then he said, "How would it be if I take you over there? You can spend the afternoon visiting with Sandee, and help her with supper. We can stop by the store on the way and pick up a load of produce, sort of as a 'thank you' for them."

She turned her gaze back to his face, a small smile growing. "I'd thank 'ee kindly f'r that, Mr. Luscus."

She gave her son a careful kiss on the forehead, then they left.

##


	12. Chapter 5 Life, Love & Hot Sauce Part B

**_Chapter Five – Life, Love, and Hot Sauce – Part B_**

**_. . ._**

**_. . ._**

**_. . ._**

##

_** Saturday 01 October 2016, 2:30pm **_

Karl's dually screeched to a stop in front of the Shop. He jumped out and made it to the door in three long strides, his magnetic key extended to the hidden sensor plate. As it clicked open, he noticed the small, overnight-delivery box sitting beside the stoop under his mail slot, and snagged it in one paw as he pushed on into the building, heading for the stairs.

His beeper had gone off as he pulled into the Greys' drive. He dropped Siobhan off as quickly as he could without being blatantly rude about it, then sped back to his home.

But when he activated the screen, it still registered a blank! _What's going on? That isn't right!_ He checked the program and found it in a 'standby' mode. A little more searching revealed that it had gone offline less than a minute after his pager called. He sat back and looked at the monitor, a lowering frown covering his face.

_This is not good. Either the program has a receiving glitch, which I doubt, or someone was able to ping the program after detection. That shouldn't be possible, but …_

Whoa.

Waitaminnit.

He looked at the box he had picked up outside, noticing that it had originated in Shiangdong Province, PRC. His eyes widening, he picked it up, then focused his Augmented senses on it.

Herbal odors. No metal. No standard explosives. Rice. And … the scent of a panda. A scent he recognized.

An incredulous smile quickly grew. He tore open the package, to reveal crumpled rice paper wadded up around a much smaller box in the center of the package. This he opened carefully. It contained a tiny vial of thick, dark-red liquid rolled in a scrap of green silk, and a very small scroll of paper, upon which, in flowing Chinese calligraphy, was written:

_My Esteemed Student,_

_I estimate that you will receive this package  
around ten o'clock on Saturday the first,  
assuming DHL does its job.  
If your irksome program has not been stopped by noon,  
I will have to presume that you were  
not home to accept the package,  
and will take steps to turn it off myself. _

_This philter will do for you what you desire  
for your young pupil.  
You must mix it with 50ml of vodka.  
Half of it you must get him to drink.  
The other half is for his physician.  
Only then will I be able truly to help him,  
able to guide the surgeon as she works.  
This much I can do in the time I have left. _

_But I must wonder:  
why have you waited so long to contact me?  
Ask yourself that, and meditate on it.  
I will await your answer._

_ - Wu Peng_

Karl dropped his paws into his lap and chuckled, almost giggled, really. Leaning his head back on the top of the chair, he closed his eyes and said, "Thank you, Sensei. I knew you'd come through."

Three minutes later he was on the road back to Montpelier, at speed.

##

_** 3:50pm **_

Doctor Hatsarana Reyamanana-Morse had never had any real regrets for the path her life had taken. Yes, it was true that the sifaka could never return to the island of Madagascar, her place of birth. And it was equally true that her mother's family, upon her conversion eight years back, had her declared legally dead. Nevertheless, she was independent-minded enough not to worry about it either deeply or often. The diminutive femme preferred cooler climes anyway, she made friends easily, and she had a career that gave her more satisfaction, and more rewards (both personal and financial) than anything she could have done in her native land.

On the other paw, some days it took every bit of her resolve not to throw up. This young fellow was a case in point. When Dr. Rodrigues had informed her of the case, he had only told her that Martin O'Musca's paws had been badly damaged. He had neglected to mention that the dormouse had been _tortured!_ So, upon her first sight of Martin's injuries, she had recoiled in shock at the evidence of sheer brutality they so vividly portrayed.

Someone had used a metal-tipped catfish stringer to sew his paws together palm-to-palm, going between the metacarpals several times with the heavy polyester cord. (Although it had been saved as evidence, she had only a photograph to view. The police had the artifact itself.) Then, at some later time, he had been suspended from the stringer, which had nearly pulled it out in a few places, stretching and tearing the tendons and muscles, dislocating one thumb, and breaking two of the bones.

She and the nurse were just finishing up with the replacement dressings when a giant walked into the room. Hatsarana was standing facing the door, and glanced up automatically when it opened. Her already large eyes got considerably wider. By her initial estimate, he massed at least four times her own forty-two kilos. He came up to the bed, beside the nurse, and said, "Hi, Cecily."

The rabbit doe looked up at him and grinned. "Hey, Karl. Your turn to sit up with the sick?"

"Something like that." He took in the femme across the bed, noting her fur pattern: short, dense, white fur covered her head except for her black face, and the small, black ears that peeked through. She had a white stripe on her short muzzle and light yellow eyes, and her paws and legs were white. But the rest of what was visible was black. He smiled and said, "Manao ahoana."

She gaped at him, then answered (in Malagasy), "Hello, yourself! How … how did you know? … "

He continued in that tongue, "One doesn't see too many sifakas outside the Republic. Would you be the paw specialist Dr. Rodrigues told me about? Dr. Reyamanana-Morse?"

"Yes." She reached a long arm across the bed. "And you are?"

He shook her paw. "Karl Luscus. I'm a friend of Martin's."

The nurse had given each of them a funny look, prompting the doctor to shift back to English. "Pleased to meet you. I assume, then, that you are aware of the extent of his injuries."

"Yes. And I would like to discuss that with you, if you don't mind."

She gave him a slight frown. "You are not family? I don't know if …"

Cecily nudged her with an elbow and said, "He's more family to Martin than my own brother is to me. He's cool."

"Oh. I understood that Mr. O'Musca had a mother and some brothers."

Karl nodded. "He does. We all go to church together. I've been sort of looking after them the last three years or so. Martin's father … died in 2012."

"Ah. I, uh, I understand." But she didn't look like she understood.

Cecily leaned over and whispered, "He's paying the bill."

"Oh. Well. Very well. I would still like to have his family involved in the discussion, though."

He concurred, "Certainly! I have no objection whatsoever. But before that, I have a favor to ask of you."

"Concerning what?"

"His treatment."

"Are you a doctor?"

"No."

Hatsarana crossed her arms and leaned against the wall. "And what is the nature of this 'favor'?"

"I would like for you to drink this." He held out a small bottle of reddish liquid.

She looked at the bottle, then dubiously at Karl, then back to the bottle. She did not offer to take it.

"It's completely safe, I assure you."

Cecily looked at the bottle and asked, "What is that, Karl?"

"An herbal infusion that will make subtle alterations in the biochemical function of the central nervous system, enabling astral communication with the one who compounded it."

Cecily's mouth dropped open a bit. Hatsarana stared at him in disbelief, backing away into the corner. "Are you totally nuts? Get away from me!"

Karl closed his fist around the bottle and dropped it to his side. "Doctor, you come from Madagascar. Are you familiar with the legend of the One Guardian?"

That was more of a course correction than her on-board navigational system could handle. "… What?"

"The Guardian. Have you heard of the One Guardian?"

"Uh … maybe. If it's the same one I think you're talking about. I heard a couple of stories about some kind of Guardian from my grandmother."

"Do you remember them?"

"Well … um, yes. It's an old bonfire tale. I think it goes something like one fur getting chosen to be the Guardian every millennium, or some such nonsense. He gets some kind of, I don't know, some kind of gift from the gods. He's supposed to look out for the tribes on the island. But that's just a myth. What could that possibly have to do with my operating on Mr. O'Musca?"

Karl held out the vial again. "This is from the last Guardian."

She just stared at him. _This joker has trekked completely around the bend._

"And," he continued, "unless the Guardian is killed on duty, a new one is chosen every three hundred years, not every thousand. It's enough of a pain for that length of time. Over three times that would be too much to ask of a mortal."

She shook her head slowly. "One of us is crazy. And I just had a CT scan four months ago, so I don't think it's me." She glanced over at the nurse, who was regarding Karl with a solemn expression. "Nurse Dommis, would you call security, please?

Cecily blinked and gave herself a little shake. "Karl? Are you saying the Guardian actually exists?"

"Oh, you know the story?"

"Yes, I heard the myth from my roommate in college. She was from Laos."

"It's no myth. I've met him. Know him fairly well, too."

"_Really?"_

He nodded, and addressed the doctor. "And I contacted him about helping with Martin. See, one of his gifts is healing. Half the potion is for Martin, and half is for you. It will allow him to help you while you operate, and help Martin's own healing ability to work with your repairs." He could tell she was not buying a word of it, and getting close to a panic in the bargain. "Doctor, I know it sounds far-fetched to someone who is totally immersed in the practices of Western medicine, but everything I am telling you is fact."

Her breathing fast and shallow, she pointed a long finger at him. "You … you're nuts! I'm not drinking anything! You get out of here! Now!" She turned pleading eyes to Cecily. "Get security! I want this nutcase locked up!"

Karl decided to try a different tack. He slid the vial back into his pocket and leaned one shoulder against the wall. "Doctor, are you planning to operate on Martin?"

"What?"

"Is it your intention to try to repair Martin's paws?"

"Umm …" She had been calculating her chances of getting past him in one piece, but then it suddenly occurred to her that the nurse might have put the big fur up to this as a practical joke. She decided to play along and see how far they'd take the gag. She nodded to herself and smiled. "Of course. I wouldn't be here otherwise."

"And what do you think of the probability of restoring full function?"

"Well … I haven't done a full reflex screening, and can't until he's awake and responsive." She was on familiar ground here, and began to relax a little. "Just from the prelim, though, I'd say full function isn't an option. The damage is too extensive. I can probably get him to seventy percent or so, but he won't have much fine motor control, especially in his left paw. Some of the muscle simply isn't there to be repaired."

"I see." He levered himself off the wall and walked to the head of the bed. Both femmes watched him closely. "So if I were to tell you that it was possible to completely heal Martin's paws, even make them better than they had been before his injury, you would find it difficult to believe?"

"Well … No."

"Oh?"

"_Difficult_ is the wrong word. _Impossible_ is much closer to reality."

A small grin waltzed across Karl's features. "You're pretty sure of yourself, doctor."

"This is my specialty, Mr. Luscus. I know my limitations, the limitations of the standard furry physique, and what can be done with modern medicine. We aren't salamanders. In time, we may be able to re-grow lost muscle tissue, but at present it just isn't achievable. I'm sorry if someone has pitched you a line about some sort of herbal voodoo, but those are the facts."

Karl's grin was still in place. Hatsarana found it irritating. He behaved as if he knew something she didn't, and she _really_ hated the feeling of being set up.

He leaned over and examined Martin's face. The swollen eye had stopped leaking blood the day before, but the fur around it still had a tendency to get matted and stiff. And, although oxygen tubes fed a slow stream of the vital gas to his nostrils, he did not have a feeding tube. Since his species was known to be able to hibernate, the staff at the hospital felt he was in no danger of starving any time soon. They kept him hydrated intravenously.

The sifaka watched with growing concern when Karl pulled a different vial of the red fluid from another pocket. He looked up at her and said, "Voodoo, or magic of any stripe, has no place in what I am proposing. But there are many avenues of healing that Eastern natural medicine recognized centuries ago, which Western physicians still refuse to acknowledge." His grin got wider. "There are more things in Heaven and Earth, Hatsarana, than are dreamt of in your philosophy." Then, before she realized what he was doing, he used two fingers to open Martin's mouth, and poured the contents of the vial therein.

"_**Stop!**__ What do you think you're __doing__?_ Cecily! Get help!" _Okay, so it wasn't a joke._ She snapped forward to try to push Karl from the bedside, but she might just as well have tried moving the building. She couldn't even do anything about his manual manipulation of Martin's throat muscles, driving the liquid down his esophagus. Utterly frustrated, she smacked the big fur repeatedly on top of his head with her balled-up fists. He paid no attention to that either.

After about ten seconds he seemed satisfied that Martin had really swallowed the liquid, and stood back up, catching the doctor's eye.

She shouted at him, "I'll see you in prison for that, you lunatic!" Turning back to Cecily, who had watched the procedure with professional distance, she said, "Fat lotta help you were. If that patient dies, you'll never work in medicine again!" She swung around the end of the bed and made for the door.

The nurse called, "Doctor, you might want to check the patient first." The timbre of her voice caused Hatsarana to turn back and look.

Martin had his one good eye open.

The sifaka walked slowly back to the bed, not really believing what she was seeing. She shook herself, whipped out a tiny flashlight, and checked Martin's pupil response. He whispered, "Cad is ainm duit?"

Her face went slack, betraying her wonder. "What?" She looked at Karl. "What was that?"

"He asked your name."

"My … I am Dr. Reyamanana-Morse."

The dormouse drew a long breath and said, "Tá áthas orm bualadh leat."

Hatsarana looked back at Karl with a quizzical expression. "What language is that?"

"A western dialect of Irish Gaelic. He says it's nice to meet you."

"Does he speak English, too?"

"Yes."

She faced the mouse squarely, and stated, "It is very good to meet you, as well, Martin. I'm here to operate on your paws." She shot a quick look at Karl, then asked, "How do you feel?"

Karl said, "She doesn't speak Gaelic, Martin."

The dormouse sighed, and said, in a very low voice, "Feel like I been run over." He looked at Karl and tried to smile, but his facial muscles weren't up to the task, and he winced at the pain. In a strained whisper, he said, "I see ye found me, then."

Karl laid a paw on his shoulder. "No, Martin, I did not. It was another fur that found and rescued you. He'll want to speak to you later, I'm sure."

Martin sighed again and closed his eye for a second. Then he frowned a tiny frown and asked, "Who be ye?"

Hatsarana looked at the nurse, who replied, "I'm Cecily Dommis, one of your nurses."

"Ah … no, ma'am. Not you. Him."

The two femmes looked around the room. "Him? Who do you mean, Martin?"

"The old panda."

Karl's head flew back in a hearty laugh, after which he said, "That, my boy, is Wu Peng, my Sensei. He's going to help the doctor here with your paws." He gave Hatsarana a calculated look. "Assuming she is willing to receive the help, that is."

"_What_ panda? What are you talking about? I don't see any panda!"

Karl asked her, "Would you like to?"

"Umm …" She was beginning to feel well out of her depth in this conversation. "Are you going to ask me to drink that stuff? Because if you are, you can forget it!"

"Why? You can see it hasn't harmed Martin."

"I don't care! I have nothing to do with black magic! I had a belly _full_ of that crap growing up."

"I told you it wasn't magic. I stay as far away from that arena as I can get. It's _way_ too dangerous."

She made a dismissive gesture. "If it's not science, it's magic."

"Maybe your definition of 'science' is too limited."

Martin said, "No, sir. I remember wakin' up in th' dark, an' hurtin' all over. Then I woke up once more when they dragged me out and threw me into a truck, but I blacked out after that."

Hatsarana just stared at the mouse, her hackles erect. "Who – is – he – talking – to?"

"I told you. Wu Peng. The former One Guardian. He was appointed near the beginning of the Qing Dynasty. His term was up in 1999, and a new one was chosen. You see, I trained under him for a few years, and he took a liking to me. He was able to see past the rough-and-tumble front I had erected for the rest of the world, and managed to teach me a few important things in spite of myself. And now he has offered to help with Martin's healing." He paused and pulled the vial back out. "He's been the greatest living physician on the planet for the last two hundred and fifty years, doctor. I'd think you wouldn't mind a consultation." And he again offered her the philter.

She stared, unblinking, at the bottle for several long moments. She started to reach for it, but then clenched her jaw. She pulled her paw back and shook her head vigorously. "No. Not now. Not yet." Her gaze boring into Karl's, she backed away slowly, then turned and scooted out the door.

Cecily was mesmerized. She leaned closer to Martin and said, "Tell me what you see."

"Panda, miss. Really old panda. He be standin' at the end of the bed. Got a big smile."

The nurse looked where Martin had indicated, but could see nothing.

"Yes, sir. I be tellin' her." Martin got Cecily's attention again and said, "Maister Wu says if ye be wantin' t' see him, t' touch me face."

She looked at Karl, questioning. He nodded and gave her a wink. She reached over and laid her paw lightly on Martin's forehead.

_**{ { YOU HAVE GREAT COURAGE OF THE HEART, LITTLE ONE. } }**_

Cecily gasped and yanked her paw back.

Karl asked, "Are you okay?"

"Uh … yeah. Yeah, sure." She touched Martin's face again, and looked at the foot of the bed.

He wore a long, yellow robe. His ancient form was much leaner than a panda ought to be, and if not for his fur markings, it would be hard to tell his species. But his eyes were soft, kind, and very shrewd.

_**{ { WHAT DO YOU WISH TO KNOW, DAUGHTER? } }**_

"I … I don't know. I'm not sure I know enough to even ask the right question."

_**{ { THEN I WILL TELL YOU. I AM NOT A GHOST. MY PHYSICAL FORM IS RESTING COMFORTABLY AT MY HOME IN CHINA. AND YES, THIS IS WHAT MENTAL COMMUNICATION FEELS LIKE. } }**_

"I'd heard stories, but never really put much credence in them. This is wonderful! Can you teach me how to do it?"

_**{ { SADLY, NO. I HAVE NOT ENOUGH TIME. BUT THERE ARE OTHERS. YOU SHOULD INQUIRE OF MY STUDENT, IF YOU TRULY WISH TO GAIN THIS KNOWLEDGE. I CAN SEE THAT YOU HOLD THE POTENTIAL WITHIN YOU. } }**_

"Your student? Who is that?"

"I think that would be me," volunteered the wolverine.

She looked at Karl in wonder. "_You_ can do this, _too_?"

"No, I was a student of the more militant end of the spectrum. I never picked up the cerebral part of it, which is a pity. I didn't have much natural bent for it at all. But I can get you to the right people, if that's what you want."

"Really? Can you?"

He nodded. "You know, most of the Master Physicians of the East have had some degree of empathic ability. It's a real shame that Western doctors, by and large, don't. Rest assured, you could be much more effective as a nurse if you could feel, in your own heart, what your patient is feeling." Then he snorted. "But just try talking to the AMA about that. You'll be lucky if they don't hustle you off to the Laughing Academy."

"But it would be so wonderful!"

He gave her a penetrating gaze and said, "It will take a long time to develop. If you are willing to contribute _several_ years of your life to this pursuit, I can point you in the right direction. But you'd better be extremely serious about it. It won't be easy."

Cecily looked back at the diaphanous form at the end of the bed. He gave her a calming smile and a nod of confirmation.

She took her paw away from Martin's head and said, simply, "When can I leave?"

Karl chuckled. "That's it? No more questions? No hesitation?"

Her gaze frank, she shook her head. "If that is possible," and she indicated the bed, "and he thinks I have what it takes to achieve it, I'm going. I'm not so stubborn as to discount the evidence of my own senses." She jerked her chin in the direction of the door. "I just hope Dr. Morse comes around. If she does drink the … what did you call it?"

"It's an herbal compound. It makes very minor changes in the way the limbic region and the cerebral cortex communicate, enabling an untrained mind to function as a trained one. But the primary effects only last about eight or nine days. I wasn't worried because I knew that she would operate on him within that time frame, whether she took the dose or not."

"Well, if she does, I want to watch the operation."

Karl pursed his lips and said, "I'm pretty sure I can get the dose into her, regardless of her wishes of the moment."

"From the way she was talking, she'd have you up on assault charges."

"Subtlety, Cecily. This calls for subtlety. The direct approach did not work, so I'll have to fall back on … let's call it misdirection."

She grinned. "You're gonna slip her a micky."

"Oh, I wouldn't put it quite that way."

Martin said, "Sure, an' I'll tell him, Maister Wu."

The other two furs turned to the mouse. Karl said, "What is it?"

"Touch me head."

Karl did so, and his old Sensei's form phased into semi-solidity. Karl bowed and said, "Yes, Master Wu?"

_**{ { YOUNG MARTIN HAS A LARGE MEASURE OF NATURAL EMPATHY. I WILL BE ABLE TO DO MUCH WITHIN HIS BODY EVEN IF THE DOCTOR DOES NOT WISH MY HELP. } }**_

"Are you saying I shouldn't try to get her to take it?"

_**{ { NO. ONLY THAT IT WILL NOT BE A TOTAL LOSS IF SHE IS NOT CONNECTED. BUT I FEEL THAT SHE WILL ACCEPT THE PHILTER. SHE SIMPLY MUST WORK IT OUT IN HER OWN MIND FIRST. } }**_

"As you say, Sensei."

_**{ { WE MUST LET MARTIN REST NOW. HE IS VERY TIRED, AND HAS YET MUCH HEALING AHEAD. HE CAME VERY CLOSE TO DEATH AT THE PAWS OF THE RAGING ONES. } }**_

"Till later, then, Master Wu." And Karl broke the connection. He noted that Martin was asleep again. _He'll probably stay that way, too, if the Master has anything to say about it. Which he does._

He put an arm around the cat's shoulders. "Cecily, let's go find somewhere quiet to talk."

##


	13. Chapter 5 Life, Love & Hot Sauce Part C

**_Chapter Five – Life, Love, and Hot Sauce – Part C_**

**_. . ._**

**_. . ._**

**_. . ._**

##

_** Monday 03 October 2016, 10:55am **_

"That all ya be needin', Wendy?"

"Yes, Quinn, I think that'll do it. I really appreciate your help."

"Ayah." He moved around behind the counter and began totaling her purchases.

She unlimbered her ChecKard and used it to tap a rhythm on the ancient hardwood surface. "I've been meaning to ask. What kinda things do you guys do around here for Hallowe'en?"

"Depends." He continued tallying her items in silence.

"Ah." _Time to break out the mining gear, girl. He isn't feeling loquacious today_. "What I mean is, are there parties for the adults, or is it just a kid thing?"

"Ayah. Got a few gatherin's."

Her nonplussed look failed to elicit any further information, so she asked, "Anything you think I'd care to attend?"

"Prob'ly." He looked her in the eye. "Depends on what you be after, though."

"What I'm after?"

"Ayah." He held out his paw for her card, which she gave him.

She shrugged. "Having fun. You know: a party? Food, drink, conversation? Some dancing, maybe the odd silly game? A party."

He thought it over for a bit and said, "Well, like as not you wouldn't go in fer the Lutheran church's Reformation Day gatherin'. As I recall, you don't hold much truck with th' Almighty."

She answered (rather drily), "You could say that."

" 'Course, goin' t'other way, doubtful you'd feel like takin' part in Molec Night, either."

She frowned. "What's that?"

"Demon-worship."

"Eewwww! They **_do_** that around here?"

"There's some as do. Not many."

A few thoughts about Arthur skittered through her mind for a moment. She shook her head to chase them off. "No thanks. None for me. Is there anything somewhere in the middle?"

He offered her the card back and said, "I b'lieve the VFW puts on a Fall Festival up Vergennes way. An' Middlebury has somethin' sim'lar. What's the name?" His brow furrowed deeply for a few seconds, then he snapped his fingers. "I remember. 'Taste the Autumn' they call it. All the eateries in town put up stalls on Seminary Street. Close it off f'r a big street dance."

"Now you're talking! Do you know what day it happens?"

He took two steps over to the almanac calendar hanging next to the apothecary's chest, and peered at it thoughtfully. " 'Less I miss my guess, it'll be the fifth weekend of the month. That'd be the twenty-ninth and thirtieth." He poked the calendar. "Eh. Daylight savin's time swap-over that same weekend."

"Perfect! I'll get an extra hour to party Saturday night." She put her jacket back on in preparation for the weather. It had turned off clear, but decidedly nippy.

"Ayah. I reckon it'll do, if'n that's what ya be after."

"Thanks, Quinn! Thanks a lot! It sounds great." She picked up the two sacks and headed for the entrance.

She was four or five meters from the door when it opened, sunlight spilling in briefly, only to be blocked again by the form of the fur standing there.

In a solemn and deafening silence, Karl and Wendy regarded each other. The seconds stretched out interminably as the two of them thought of several dozen things that needed to be said, discarding each in quick succession as it occurred.

At length, he moved to the side, offering an abbreviated bow as he indicated the portal he was holding open for her. She took small, slow steps the rest of the way to the threshold, then halted and looked up at him.

"Wendy, I'd …" "Karl, would …"

They both stopped, flustered. He said, "My apologies. What did you want to say?"

She didn't answer for a moment, then said, "You first."

Quinn, in a rather irritable voice, called out, "Would ya make up y'r mind as to just where this palaver ought to take place? Y'r lettin' the heat out."

Fox and wolverine blushed again, and hurried on out to the sidewalk. The wind was just shy of stiff, and it blew Wendy's headfur out in gusty streamers. Karl said, "Maybe we should continue our conversation indoors."

She wasn't meeting his eyes. "I need to put my things in the van first."

"May I carry them for you?"

"Um. … … Okay." She passed him the bags and he followed her to her vehicle. She shortly had everything stowed securely in the back. After closing and locking the door, she turned back to him, but didn't raise her eyes. "There's that little diner four doors down. Will that do?"

"I think so." He held his arm out in the direction of the sidewalk. "After you."

She hurried on over and they both walked briskly down to the lunch stand. It was yet a little early for the noon meal, and they had the small place to themselves. Karl noted muted noises coming from the back, and the sign over the counter that stated "Lunch served 11:30 – 1:00". He nodded to himself and followed Wendy to one of the four tables, pulling her chair out for her. She looked back at him hesitantly, then sat. He seated himself opposite her.

"You still want me to go first?"

She nodded silently. He thought she seemed very ill at ease.

"All right then. Wendy, I made several mistakes that I need to apologize for."

She frowned and said, "_You_ made? What …"

He held up a finger and said, "Please let me finish. Then you can have your say."

She lapsed back into silence.

"First, I made a number of overtures to you without fully considering the consequences of what I was saying. It was out of my selfishness that I invited you to go with me on that sight-seeing trip, _and_ to the ice-cream social, _and_ to the … to the hayride." He cleared his throat, swallowed, and continued.

"I lost control of myself that night. Then when it was already too late I discovered that I was not as ready to start a relationship as I'd thought." He shook his head for emphasis. "Not nearly. My actions carried many implications, effectively made promises to you that I found myself unable to keep, and for that I have the deepest regret. I feel that I betrayed your trust with a false front, and then when you … well, when you took me up on my offer, and I couldn't follow through, you were understandably upset. I should have seen it coming. Truthfully, I should have seen it all the way from the horizon, but I had blinded myself to the probable results of my actions, and the upshot was that you got hurt." He took a deep breath. "Wendy, I will understand if you don't feel very forgiving. Not many furs could bounce back easily from a … well, from something that would appear so much like a rejection."

She stared at him for several long moments. Karl was shocked and saddened to note the tears welling up in her eyes.

"Wendy, I am so deeply sorry. I see that I should have waited longer to speak to you. I'll go."

She shot a paw out and laid it on his arm to stop him from getting up.

And, _notwithstanding_ his resolve to stay as neutral as possible …

And,_ despite_ everything he had said about his intentions …

And,_ regardless_ of what he knew about the danger and futility of getting involved with her …

… that touch on his arm was absolutely galvanic. His motion aborted, he sat back down with a bump. He barely did achieve enough control not to gasp.

Wendy withdrew her paw and said, "You know," _- sniff -_ "it's funny how the same incident can take on completely different meanings from a different perspective." She fished around in her pocket for a tissue and wiped her eyes and nose.

He waited, not trusting himself to speak intelligibly.

"I've been thinking about that night, Karl," _- sniff -_ "I've been thinking about it a _**lot**_. Trying to figure out what I did wrong."

"You didn't …"

It was her turn to stop his protests. "You spoke your piece. You can wait until I'm done."

He shut up.

She drew a breath, let it out slowly, and then tapped the table with her finger for emphasis. "Okay. I'll give you this: while we were on the hayride you got me very, very interested in pursuing matters a bit further. That was your doing, yes. But I jumped the gun big time."

She had to hold up her paw again. "I can't let you take all the blame, because that would be just plain wrong. You expressed an interest. But I extrapolated on it to a point far beyond anything you had planned. And I had no right to assume, simply because we had a good time kissing, that you had intended anything … well, anything more intimate. That was my doing. And frankly, it's what I wanted. I won't deny that. You could say that I am not inexperienced in that regard, and when you get used to having something that you like, its absence becomes painfully obvious after a time. So in a way, I was using you for my own selfish purposes."

"Wendy!"

"I'm sorry, Karl. That's how it was. I let my … my desire for physical gratification get in the way of a wonderful friendship. And you won't believe how I've beat myself up about it, too."

" … Really?"

She nodded.

He gave a wry chuckle. "And I thought I had tossed away any chance of being _your_ friend by my bone-headed maneuvers."

"Guess you'd say it wasn't one-sided."

"Takes two to make an argument?"

"Pithily put, sir."

He leaned back and contemplated the tip of her muzzle. "So you want to make it pax?"

"And how!" she nodded emphatically. "Karl, you have been my most loyal supporter and ally since I moved here. You're my 'miracle-fur'. I've gotten awfully used to seeing you around the Inn every few days, yakking with you on the phone, trading e-mails about obscure and obsolete words." She gave him a simple, genuine smile. "Karl, you _are_ my friend. I'd like to think we could get past my little indiscretion, and _stay_ friends."

He returned her smile. "I'd like that very much."

"Well, then, as a friend, do you think I might get a hug?"

"You just might at that." And with supreme control over his emotional response mechanism, he managed to give her a creditable and friendly hug.

He wasn't about to let her know how much it cost him, though.

##

_** 7:40pm **_

Pastor Grey scratched the back of his neck and shook his head. "That's quite a story, Karl. You know, for an intelligent guy, you certainly do go out of your way to set yourself up for personal pain."

"I did what I had to do, Alan."

"Ah-huh. And that included maintaining close contact with a femme that you are strongly attracted to, but with whom you have already decided you have no chance of forging an intimate relationship?"

Karl's voice dripped sarcasm. "Well, when you put it like that, it doesn't sound very appealing, does it?"

"Karl, you are totally stuck on that woman."

He didn't answer, preferring to stare off into space.

"You needn't bother trying to figure out whether you should confirm or deny that assertion. It's obvious. I know it. You know it."

"So? What difference does it make? She wants to be my friend. But she is no longer interested in anything beyond friendship, since she can't 'get physical' with me. And I am not interested in marriage with a non-Christian. All that means is that we are at an impasse, on a romantic level. But as friends I think we'll do just fine."

"I think you're playing with fire, my friend."

"I know that verse, too, Alan. But I am not taking her 'into my bosom', as it were. She is at arm's length, and she'll stay there."

"And meanwhile, _you_ get all the pain of an unrequited love, from someone who doesn't even know how you feel. Is that really what you want?"

"What I want is immaterial. What exists is all that matters."

"You aren't making any sense, Karl, and I find that frankly frightening."

The big fur frowned. "I don't need my paw held, Alan. I only came by to update you on the situation." He got up to leave.

The pastor rose as well. "And I appreciate that, brother. It helps me to know how I should pray."

Karl slumped a little when he reached the door. "I'm sorry, Alan. I know you have my best interests at heart. You don't need dumping-on."

"Part of the job description, my friend. And may the Lord's providence guide you."

Karl gave him half a smile and left.

##


	14. Chapter 6 Catching Up Part A

**_Chapter Six – Catching Up – Part A_**

. . .

. . .

. . .

**No one means all he says,  
****and yet very few say all they mean,  
****for words are slippery and thought is viscous.**

_**-Henry Brooks Adams**_

##

_** Tuesday 04 October 2016, 10:15am **_

Capra had rated some new digs.

He and Hemanth and Colonel Genetta held several tightly-guarded meetings about the wayward wolverine who seemed to be weighing so heavily on their minds these days. The result was that Capra's base of operations was moved to a central New England location in western Massachusetts, in an old house just outside Cheshire. He took his time and scouted the various locales before settling on that place, and insisted to anyfur who commented on it that its position less than thirty-five klicks from the restaurant where they'd seen Gulo was purely coincidental.

Capra had picked his team, briefed them to the extent he felt they needed, and set up the command center for surveillance and data acquisition. Then they all stayed busy for a good while, sifting through a tall and tortuous mountain range of information.

This morning was no different. He was hunched over his terminal, poring over back issues of a county newspaper from eastern New York. Three of his operatives were out on legwork assignments, and the remaining four were filtering data off the 'net. They were all good, solid agents, keen-eyed and steady, and two of them had been with him … back when. Norbert Foxworth ("The name's Foxworth. Just Foxworth.") and Wayne Nutu had worked, if only tangentially, with Omicron Platoon, and knew much of what Capra knew. A case in point …

"Hey Capra, you see that Newswire piece on the death-row escapees?"

"Yeah. Dat's got Sinclair's paw prints all over it. I'll bet he…"

"What are you talking about?" Her high, slightly nasal Rhode Island accent hanging in the air, Trina padded up and peered over Wayne's shoulder.

He startled, then swiveled his chair to block the monitor on his desk. "Uhhh … nothin'." He hadn't realized she was in the building.

"Uh-huh. Right. Listen, I heard about those three guys. They escaped from death row in Nevada last week. Killed a couple of guards and boosted the laundry truck, didn't they?"

"Ummm … Yes. Yes, they did."

"So what? They get caught?"

She received a decidedly uncomfortable look from the meerkat. "Well, um, not, that is, not exactly."

The hedgehog femme shook her head. _I hate it when they try to play mind games with me._ "What's that supposed to mean?"

He looked over at his immediate superior, but Capra was being inscrutable.

"Never mind. I'll just read it myself." She bent over and squinted. "Can you make that print larger?"

"Ummm …" He looked for some kind of confirmation from Capra and was finally rewarded with a tiny nod. "Sure. Hang on." He tapped a few keys, and the focus zoomed in, effectively doubling the size of the font. "Better?"

"Yup." She scanned down the document, her eyes springing wide. "Yuck!"

"Uh-huh."

Capra asked, "She get ta da paht about da thumbs?"

Wayne nodded. Trina stood and backed off a couple of steps, looking slightly queasy. She asked, "Does it say what the warden did when he found them all lined up on his desk like that?"

"Ehh … no. This is just the summary report. We'll be getting the whole poop later."

She leaned back against a desk on the other side of the aisle. "So. Who is this Sinclair, and how do you know he's involved?"

Wayne shot Capra a look and shrugged in defeat. _Guess he's gonna let me hang myself with my own tongue. _"No way to know for certain. But Sinclair has ways of getting stuff like this done. We'd never be able to hang anything on him, anyway. He'd have an alibi. Hell, he's probably been in Europe for two weeks for all we know."

"T'ree," said Capra, as he consulted his monitor. "An' it's Sout' Africa, not Europe."

Trina was even more confused now. "Waitaminnit! You keep tabs on this guy?"

Capra said, "It ain't hard ta do, toots," as he repositioned his cigar.

She bristled (literally) at his tone. "My name is Trina. T-R-I-N-A. I have asked you to use it. Repeatedly."

"Whateveh."

Wayne broke in, "He's easy to track because he's sort of semi-famous in some circles. See, he's an artist, and he does these shows all over the world, and …"

"Whoa! Whoa! Are you talking about _Matt_ Sinclair?"

Capra raised one shaggy eyebrow. "You know 'im?"

"I know _of_ him. I'd love to actually _meet_ him! I've got several of his prints." She frowned again. "He's a painter! How do you figure he could have anything to do with this … this business with the severed thumbs?"

Capra said, "Ya got a 5-C clearance, right?"

She nodded.

"When ya hit 7-B, ast me again."

Her muzzle tightening in frustration (and her headquills expanding alarmingly) she stalked out into the hall and back to her desk.

Wayne got up and went over to Capra. In a low voice he asked, "Were you just yanking her chain about that clearance level stuff? You know we can't tell her anything."

"No prob, kid. By da time she gets ta seven, if she ever does, she won't be workin' around us no way." He glanced at the clock on the wall. "Almost time fer da meetin'. You ready?"

"I am. Got all the backgrounds and maps, and the likelihood algorithm's results for the top fifty."

"Good. Dat'll give Raj da warm-fuzzies." Capra tapped a few more keys, then detached his paw-unit from the main system. Slipping it into a pocket, he jerked his head toward the door. The meerkat dutifully preceded his boss out into the hall.

##

_** 10:48am **_

Lee examined the chessboard with distaste. "I make it mate in four."

Karl had the good grace not to grin. "Correct."

"That will be three in a row."

"Also correct."

Lee rested on one elbow and drilled the wolverine with a keen eye. "I don't remember seeing your name on the Life Master list, old son, although you have me convinced it belongs there."

"I don't enter the competitions."

Lee's expression rearranged itself into a more sardonic pose. "Mind if I ask why?"

"Not at all."

The cat refused to take the bait, immediately asking, "Why, then?"

"Because I don't feel like it."

"… … … … Ah-huh." He leaned back in the chair and scratched the back of his neck while contemplating his large friend.

Karl said, "I'm changing the subject now. I'm glad to see that you are still carrying your knife. Are you wearing the shroud?"

"No. Not at present." Lee frowned. "I know there are still a few Knights at large, but do you really think that level of caution is warranted? We _are_ inside a couple of meters of reinforced concrete, you know."

"I know. And, yes, for any circumstance where you would leave the building, I do. There are several leaders unaccounted for, among them one Niles Grosvenor, who killed four troopers when he escaped last week."

"Yes, Michael told me about that. And I understand from Lance that the State Police want his head on a pole now."

"Nor do I blame them. And if he, or one of the others, is able to pull together some of the remnants currently lying low, they could pose a viable threat. I'm sure they know who we all are by now, and likely where."

Lee thoughtfully stroked the side of his muzzle. "You know, I'm wondering about Michael's little get-together now. He wants to hold the celebration at his place in the country, and it doesn't sound all that secure from what I've heard."

"He's planning to have a rather large number of officers there as well, is he not?"

"Yes."

"Frankly, I'd be more concerned about your day-to-day activities. How often does anyone leave the armory?"

"Well ... … Of late, maybe once or twice a day."

"Often enough to present any kind of pattern to an observer?"

"I see what you're getting at. They've tried sniping before, and may yet again." He nodded to himself. "Point well taken. I'll see to it that Debbye wears hers, too."

"Good."

"You wouldn't happen to have any more of those lying around would you?"

"Unfortunately, no. As you could easily tell, they don't fit me. I acquired them some time back as part of a larger … shipment."

"The ones you gave us are military issue, Special Forces. I know because I've seen that style before. The DoD uses them."

Karl nodded.

Suppressing most of a grin, Lee asked, "What kind of 'shipment' were these part of?"

"Sir! I am quite sure I don't know what you are talking about." Karl's attempt at a look of innocence failed rather badly.

That drew a couple of decent snorts from the cat. "Uh-huh. Are you _dead_ sure you don't want to come work with me?"

"Afraid so. It just wouldn't fit." He noticed the clock on the wall behind Lee's head. "Say, I've gotta get going. I need to speak with 'Rana before she operates in the morning, and I know she's over at the hospital this afternoon."

"You two sure did get cozy in hurry. Scuttlebutt I heard from the nursing staff was that she wanted you locked up."

"Don't underestimate her. That lady is hyper-intelligent. She did some research on my story, and decided I was legitimate. Then I let her do some tests on a small sample of the infusion, to satisfy herself as to its makeup. Of course, once she drank it and met Wu Peng, all doubts vanished."

"Heh. I bet. You know, I still find it hard to believe that you actually studied under the One Guardian."

"And I find it hard to believe that you knew as much about him as you did. Never met anyone else who had anything like your command of the subject. You even knew pretty much where he lived."

"It was germane to the project at the time."

"Well, it was very refreshing not to have to explain every little detail about him and what he does." He stood and shook Lee's paw. "Thanks for the games. You're good."

"Not quite good enough, I fear." Lee glanced over his shoulder, and raised an eyebrow at the time. "Is it going to take you an hour and a half to get across town? It's the smallest capitol city in the country!"

"I've got a couple of other errands to run first, then there's lunch." He made for the door, swinging his head back into the room as soon as he exited. "You _will_ wear the shrouds?"

"We will. Don't worry."

"What about your pistols?"

"Got 'em yesterday." He allowed himself a small smile as he replayed the memory of their arrival. "Special courier from my office."

"Be sure you carry those, too."

"Every time we go outside. That's why I had them sent up." His smile matured to a wide grin. "You know, you're starting to sound like my grandmother."

The big wolverine gave him a wry grimace, then nodded again, and left.

##

_** 2:08pm **_

Wendy parked her van as close to the lobby as she could to minimize lugging distance. She trotted around to the back and got out the large basket of goodies, nudged the hatch closed with her elbow, and waddled up to the door. Thankfully, it opened automatically. An orderly saw her and hurried over to help, and she gratefully relinquished her burden to the otter.

"Wow! This thing's huge!" He gave her a discreet and appreciative once-over, noting the lack of a wedding band. "What you got in here, Miss?"

She'd missed his quick scan, and replied, "Goody basket. I hear Martin has so many furs visiting him, I thought it would be good to have something on-paw for them to munch."

"Oh, I see. This goes in Mr. O'Musca's room?"

"Yes."

"That's very thoughtful of you, Miss … "

"Wylde. Call me Wendy."

"That's a pretty name."

She quirked a brow and gave him the eye. "Thanks."

His smile got very wide. "You, um, seeing anyone? Regularly?"

"Not at present. But that's not surprising, since I can't swim very well."

That statement was a polite social code used with certain of the aquatic furs to let them know that their interest was not returned. With otters, especially, it was _mandatory_ to get that sort of thing settled up front, unless one felt like getting hit on the rest of the day. He seemed to take it in stride.

"Okay. Would you like me to carry this up now?"

"Sure, why not? But wouldn't you rather …" Her voice trailed off as she watched him place the basket on a gurney, acting upon her unspoken advice. "Right. Okay, you lead, I follow."

They trundled over to the elevators, and shortly emerged on the third floor. Wendy spotted the guards standing down the hall and correctly surmised that to be Martin's room. The orderly called one of them by name as they approached.

"Hey, Cal! You bored yet?"

The tall Shepherd sighed, loudly. "Macey, that comment wasn't funny the _first_ time you said it. Last week."

"Well maybe this'll lighten your load some." He indicated the large basket and then nodded at Wendy. "This nice lady thought the furs visitin' your young fella in there might come all over with the munchies, so she brought this along. Of course, you two aren't technically _visiting_, so maybe you don't …"

The other guard, a portly mixed-breed feline, broke in with, "Now, Macey, you know better than that. This here is a toll-door."

"I dunno, Jock." The otter patted the cat's tummy. "Don't think you need any more 'toll', elsewise you just might pop." He snickered. "Then it _will_ be a 'toll', only they'll be 'tolling' a bell for ya, 'cause you'll be a stiff."

Wendy spoke up. "Would you fellows mind breaking it up so I can get on with the delivery part?"

"Yeah, that's right," agreed the voluble otter. "You two are standin' in the way of progress."

Wendy took charge of the gurney and gave him a pointed look. "I think I'll be all right now, thank you very much."

His subsequent deflation was so pathetic and so obvious the other three couldn't help the smiles that crept over their faces. Wendy temporized. "Tell you what. You can pick any item from the basket for yourself as a 'Thank You' for getting me here. How's that?"

Instantly he perked back up and grinned. The rest found his abrupt about-face highly amusing.

"But let me just get it into the room first, okay? I'd like to see my friend in there, if you don't mind."

"Right, sure, yes ma'am, you got it, right this way." He opened the door and Wendy pulled the mobile platform into the room. . . . .

And pulled up short.

The nurse standing at the foot of the bed, reading the chart? No surprise there. This _was_, after all, a hospital.

Mrs. O'Musca, hunched in a chair against the bed, sleeping beside her son? Again, no surprise. Wendy had heard of her near-constant vigil. Since Samantha had returned, regretfully, to her life back in Pennsylvania, Siobhan had hardly left Martin's side.

But who … _who_ is that wolf? Who is that – that tall, distinguished fur? That – oh, that scrumptious lupine hunk with the hint of silver at his temples, standing there in his black leather vest, looking almost good enough to eat. . . . . .

He glanced up and met her gaze. One side of his muzzle curled up ever-so-slightly, and he cocked his head a bit to the right, interest sparking deep in his own darkly gray-blue eyes. He came around the end of the bed and extended a paw.

"Hey, there. My name's Conner." He kept his voice low.

Wendy remembered to breathe. "Um. Ah. H – Hello. Mine's Wendy." She took his paw in as firm a shake as she could manage.

The otter glanced up from rummaging in the basket, looked back and forth between the two for a second, said, "Hmph," under his breath, and left, closing the door behind him.

Conner's slight grin matured into a smile. "Well let me just say how great a pleasure it is to make your acquaintance, Miss Wendy. Or is it Mrs.?"

"Used to be. But that was a long time ago." She came back to herself and put on a confident front. "And although I'd hazard a guess that it isn't really properly your business, I do happen to be unattached at the moment." She indicated the bed and its guardian with a nod of her head. "How do you know the O'Musca's?"

If the abrupt query caught him off guard, he didn't show it. "Funny you should mention that. You could say that Martin and I have never been formally introduced, so in that respect I _don't_ know him. But I did persuade the ones who had him to let him go."

Wendy's eyes got round. "Oh! You're _that_ wolf!" She re-appropriated his paw and shook it vigorously. "I'm sorry, I didn't make the connection." She glanced over at Siobhan, who moved slightly on her chair, sighing in her sleep. Keeping her voice down, she said, "Mr. von Trapp, you have no idea of what a wonderful thing it is that you did! You're a bona fide hero!"

He seemed a little bemused by her sudden enthusiasm. "Heh. Well. I don't know as I'd go _that_ far. I didn't really have to put myself out. It was more a matter of being at the right place at the right time."

"And you saved his life! You carried him out, didn't you?"

"Yes, but …"

"You got him to the hospital, didn't you?"

"I did, but …"

"And you caught that horrible Damien furson, too!"

"Now that was just sheer, dumb luck. I had no way of knowing which one of them was …"

"Well, nobody else did it. Am I right?"

He blinked in momentary confusion. When had he lost control of this encounter? "Well, when you put it that way, I can see your point. But I really think that anyone else in my position would have done the same."

"Ah, but no one else was _in_ your position." She nodded, apparently satisfied with her logical triumph. "And maybe you fall into the 'some-have-greatness-thrust-upon-them' category. It doesn't matter. The bottom line is, you are responsible for Martin's being alive and with us today." It was at that point that she noticed the scabbed-over cut on the right side of his head. She pointed at it. "How did that happen?"

With a rueful grimace, he reached up and felt the place. "I got careless. It's nothing important."

"Y'know, somehow I doubt that."

The nurse whispered, "You're right about that, honey." Conner shot her a look which she ignored. "He got shot goin' back after the ones that did this to Martin." She replaced the chart on its hook at the end of the bed and stepped toward the door, giving Wendy a confidential wink. "Right about him bein' a hero, too." And she, as had the otter, closed the door when she left.

Wendy gave him the 'eyebrow'. "You saved his life. You got shot for your trouble. And it's 'no big deal'? You're as bad about understatement as Karl."

"Karl?"

"Friend of mine. Runs a repair shop over in New Haven Junction."

"Repair shop …" His brow furrowed briefly before the light came on. "Oh! You mean Karl Luscus?"

Her eyes widened in surprise. "Yeah. You know him?"

"Sorta, kinda. See, he's the one that asked me to take him back to the place where the low-downs had Martin. He pulled my nuts outta the fire after I got plugged. Me and Lee, both. Karl took off after a bunch of 'em that'd left the camp, and part of that bunch came back and got the drop on us. Karl turned up in time to keep the guy who shot us from finishing the job." He shook his head, chuckling. "That fur can pull out more different cans of whoop-ass than anybody else I ever met."

Wendy's face transmitted her incredulity quite clearly. "_Karl_? Karl _Luscus_?"

He nodded.

She held up her paw, palm-down, as high as she could reach. "Great big wolverine? Reeeeally long fur, so dark brown it looks black?"

"Yep. Sounds like him. What, you didn't know?"

She dropped her arm. "Uh … know what? Can he fight or something?"

Conner didn't even try to suppress the snort that erupted. " 'Can he fight?' That's rich. He's prob'ly one of the more dangerous guys I ever worked with, that's all. And believe you me, _that's_ sayin' a mouthful."

"… You're kidding."

"Just how well do _you_ know him? Obviously not too well, if you don't know anything about his combat skills."

_Now that I think about it, Mac did mention that the big lug was into the martial arts._ "Well," she offered, lamely, "I guess he's good at keeping secrets." She resolved to interrogate the big, black fur the next time a good chance presented itself. In an effort to change the subject, she showed him the basket she'd brought. "Hey! Since you're a visitor, these are for you, too."

He looked through the selection. "Wow. Something for everyone." He chose a tiny turnover and sniffed it appreciatively. "Is that venison?"

"Uh-huh. See, it says 'carnivores' on this end, and 'herbivores' on that end. You'd be able to deal with any of it, being a wolf. But the felines and the lapines need to know the difference."

"I can see your point." He popped the turnover into his mouth and chewed with reflective enjoyment. "Whoa. Now I'm sorry I ate before I came over."

She brightened up. "Tell you what. As a 'thank-you' for what you did for Martin, I'll fix you a full formal dinner at the Café. Just name the night."

Conner's blank look prompted her to explain. "You know Ash Creek Inn?"

He shook his head.

"Oh. Well, let's see. It's over west of here. About seven or eight klicks north of New Haven. You know where that is?"

"… Yyyyyesss. I know New Haven. I'm trying to remember what the land looks like around there. But I don't remember an Inn."

"It's very close to Ash Creek. Actually, the Creek runs through the property."

"Is it anywhere near the old Vulpin place?"

Wendy sighed. "It _is_ the old Vulpin place. Guess I should've thought to call it that to begin with. That's how everyone _else_ around here refers to it."

He looked awfully confused. "How'd you get a Café in the old Vulpin place? And what's this about it being an Inn? Old Squire Vulpin isn't one to cotton to strangers, if I remember rightly."

"Did you know him?"

"_Did_ I know him? Is he dead?"

She nodded.

"Oh. Huh. Thought he was too ornery to ever die. No, I didn't really know him, not very well anyhow. Spoke to him a couple of times about hunting on his land. He used to hunt, himself, from what I understand. But he was always real short with me."

"Well … …" Wendy pondered how to put this. "You've been out of touch for a while. The short version is that he's my uncle, he died, and he left the place to me. So I turned it into a Bed & Breakfast and opened a Café. Fine dining, reservations only. Haute cuisine and stuff."

"Huh!" He seemed impressed. "That's a mighty big place. You running it by yourself?"

"Mostly. I have one part-time employee who comes over when I have weekend guests, plus she helps out with the cooking. But, yeah, mostly it's just me."

"Uh-HUH! Color me impressed. How long have you been there?"

"Since June."

"Y'know, now that you mention it, your accent doesn't peg you as a local. Near Mid-west, I'd say."

"Not too far off. I lived in Pennsylvania for most of my life." She gave him a toothy grin. "Long enough to pick up the jargon."

"So you moved here from Pennsylvania in June?"

"Yep."

"And you already have that old pile of a house fixed up for guests?"

"Sure do."

"You must have worked your fur off!" He gave her a quick up-and-down. "I see it grew back, though."

He found her low, throaty laugh at his comment to be very charming, indeed. He asked, "Tell me, since you brought the topic up on my behalf, how do you know Martin? Friend of the family?"

"Ehh. … Not exactly. See, my uncle set up a perpetual account for me with the Fixit Shop, and Martin works for Karl. So I get to see one or both of them at the Inn on a pretty regular basis. But I _do_ know Siobhan, there, come to think on it. She and a few others from the neighborhood came over and threw me a big, old-fashioned cleaning party a while back. They were a huge help in getting me going, innkeeper-wise."

"So you felt obliged to bring this smorgasbord around to the hospital. That was real nice of you."

"Thanks." She felt the slightest tug on her muzzle as the fur attempted to fluff. "It just seemed like the thing to do."

"Hey, listen," he suggested. "I have some things I have to get done this afternoon, but I ought to be finished by five or so. Would you happen to be free for dinner tonight? I'd love to continue this chat in a … place with a little more privacy."

Her face fell. "Oh. Tonight. No, I have guests at the Café. Early and late." She brightened up some, and said, "But I don't have to be there myself until about four." She gave him a sly look. "What might be the nature of these 'things' you need to do, and would you fancy a little company while you do them?" She dimpled. "Or do they involve other femmes?"

"Heh! Only if the sales clerk is a femme. Heck, yeah! I'd love to have you tag along." He offered his arm, and she placed a paw on it as they headed for the door.

Siobhan never knew anything about their arrivals or departure, but her dreams while in that chair featured lots of chattering furs. Not very conducive to restful sleep.


	15. Chapter 6 Catching Up Part B

**_Chapter Six – Catching Up – Part B_**

. . .

. . .

. . .

##

_** Tuesday 04 October 2016,2:45pm **_

Karl pushed open the door to the smaller of the two doctors' lounges and said, "Knock-knock."

Hatsarana lifted one eyelid fractionally and regarded him calmly, but did not answer.

Karl came on into the room and stood in front of the sifaka. She rested comfortably in the lotus position (no trick, given her extraordinarily limber body) and seemed to be quite preoccupied. Karl guessed with whom, and took a seat on a nearby sofa to await her acknowledgement.

Nor did he wait long. She sagged slightly, then straightened up and unfolded her limbs. Standing, she walked slowly over to the couch and flopped down next to the wolverine. She stuck her paw out, and he took it with a grin.

"Thanks," she said.

"Your welcome. What for?"

"For not giving up. For getting me to see things clearly." She leaned her head back against the seat, staring at the ceiling with her huge, transparent eyes. "Karl, I've learned more medicine, and I mean _real_ medicine, not just techniques, in the last two days than in my entire tenure at medical school." She shook her head slowly. "Wu Peng is flippin' incredible. I wish I could study under him personally. I'm afraid the people he's referring me to won't have his touch."

"I'm sure they'll be adequate. He wouldn't have recommended them otherwise. Who is he sending you to, by the way?"

"Fellow out on the west coast name of Ort. Australian by birth, but he's been in the states several years. He worked with Master Wu for almost a decade."

"Well. You could hardly get a better setup than that."

"I guess." She paused for a bit, then added, "I'm glad I don't have any family to move. I'll be packing to leave come the weekend."

"And you are operating tomorrow."

"Starting at six in the morning." Her eyes shone when she looked at him. "I feel like a virgin bride."

He had to laugh at that. "You feel like you've never really performed a true operation before?"

"Exactly. I haven't. I'm so totally pumped about working on Martin's paws, I can barely stand myself. Just think!" She grabbed his arm and shook it for emphasis. "To be feeling, personally, what is going on inside his paw! To control the bleeding myself, just by willing it! To get the muscle or tendon to turn or twist or stretch or bend as it needs to, and to _know_ beyond all doubt that it's going back together the right way! To encourage new tissue to grow!" She flopped back again and flung an arm wide. "And to do it all with no scarring, no pain, no trauma! Who wouldn't be thrilled?"

"I'm very glad to have been able to help."

"Like I said. Thank you." She stretched up and gave him a quick kiss on the side of his muzzle. "I'll never be able to repay you, but you do have my undying gratitude for hooking me up with Wu Peng."

"You're welcome. Again." They sat in silence for several seconds, then he asked, "Do you need any help packing?"

"Hmm … Packing, no. Toting furniture, now, that's another thing." She studied his form briefly. "If you're offering your aid in that task, I won't say 'no'. You look like you'd be able to help quite a bit." She pinched up some of his forearm muscle between two long fingers, and pursed her lips. "Huh. That's … umm … impressive. You must work out a lot."

"I do."

"Well, if you're feeling particularly helpful Saturday morning, pop around to my condo." She rose gracefully to her feet. "And now I must be on my way home. Got an early bedtime."

"Understood. May I walk you out?"

"It would be my pleasure, sir."

_**[ As you have no doubt noticed before, Gentle Reader, if you have perused much fiction at all, coincidence is a marvelously useful and effective plot device. Whether it be a crucial meeting just missed, or a 'chance' encounter that has grave consequences later in the story, the coincidental happenstance is a model whose utility has been proven time and again. **_

_**This, then, ought not come as too big a shock. ]**_

Karl's first sight, upon the opening of the elevator door, was of Wendy and Conner walking arm-in-arm away from him toward the Lobby exit. Her low laugh reached his ears simultaneously.

Hatsarana stepped out onto the dense carpet and turned right, making for the rear wall of glass and the breezeway over to the doctors' parking area. She did not immediately check to see whether Karl was following.

He wasn't.

He took one step out of the elevator and stood watching as the vixen and the wolf strolled through the outer doors. His sensory input array had instantly skipped into full Augment, and besides the final threads of their conversation, he picked up their pulse rates, scents, respiration . . . .

They were in the throes of a highly-excited hormonal state. Both of them.

Conner finished the short anecdote he was relating and she laughed again, then she leaned against his shoulder. His left arm encircled her slender waist possessively as the automatic doors whooshed shut behind them.

And then all Karl could hear was his own heartbeat.

" . . . . . . "

His head jerked around. "What?"

Hatsarana took a step backward. "Uhh … I said, 'Are you okay?' You look like you just spotted an old enemy's ghost."

He focused on her face. Shaking his head a couple of times, he shrugged and replied, "Yeah. I'm okay."

"You aren't very convincing."

He rubbed his forehead a few times and sighed. "I'm just hungry."

"You seem to be hungry an awful lot of the time."

"High metabolism." He realized he was slumping and straightened back up. "I'll go get myself something out of the hospital cafeteria."

"You're a braver soul than I am, sir."

"Whatever. Listen, I'll see you in the morning, okay?"

"Sure. Just watch my dust." And she trotted off toward the covered lot and her car, calling over her shoulder, "Later!"

"Right. Later." But, pleasant sight though it was, he wasn't watching as she hurried off. His eyes were, instead, following Wendy's van as it pulled out into the street behind Conner's pickup.

_Idiot. Fool. Preening moron. How could you be such a blithering, unconscious cretin? Of __course__ she isn't going to put her social life on hold just because you have other plans. __You__ were the one who turned her down. She has every right to other male companionship. Just because you didn't want to think about the consequences. . . . ._

He vented a deep sigh, then trudged off in the direction of the main parking lot. He found that he was not, after all, very hungry.

##

_** Wednesday 05 October 2016, 8:40am **_

A small, feral chipmunk sat on the low wall of stacked field rock that ran beside the secondary road, stuffing his cheek pouches with the maple seeds that had gathered in the hollows between the stones. The day was relatively warm, for the season, and he had taken advantage of that fact to increase his larder in preparation for the extreme weather that he knew, instinctively, was to come later in the winter.

He paused and cocked an ear. Shortly he could feel a rhythmic vibration that transmitted up through the ancient wall. He fled his perch and scampered back to earth, to his den. Collecting would have to wait.

A scant eight seconds later, a large, rust-colored figure tore by, to vanish just as quickly down the road to the east. His breath came easily through the slightly-parted muzzle as his long strides ate up the distance.

Red Raines was running.

This was his preferred mode of travel. If he needed to get somewhere, and he could spare the time, he ran. Since he could maintain a pace of some thirty-five klicks for hours on end, he didn't bother with his specially-modified step van unless he was going after something he couldn't reasonably carry in the saddlebags on his broad back. And the special-order control box he had waiting for him in Middlebury would mass no more than a few kilograms. From his place near Waltham to the electrical supply company down off State Road 30 was only about sixteen klicks. He figured half an hour to get there, tops.

The morning couldn't have been better for his purposes: just over ten degrees, clear, bright, and frostless, with a light breeze from the east. He was truly in high spirits as he turned south onto the grassy shoulder of US Highway 7.

##

_** 9:06am **_

Karl stood when Hatsarana came out of the double doors that led to the operating theatre. She'd already taken off her surgical mask, so he could see the grin that threatened to bisect her head. He offered her one of his own.

"I take it the operation was successful?"

She stuck both long arms into the air and yelled, "WEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE-_**HOOO!**_" Then she flipped forward in a set of pawsprings to land on her feet in front of him. "I feel _good_! _Damn!_"

"I'll take that as a 'yes', then."

She punched his arm. "That was better than **_sex!_** You have no idea. Karl, everything worked. _Everything!_ When I finished and closed up, the only way you could tell they'd ever been damaged was that they were just the least bit swollen. And I can do it myself now! I can do it all _myself!_" She hugged herself and then pirouetted in place. "This is perfect! Wonderful! Incredible!" She shivered. "_Damn!_"

"Having a little trouble expressing yourself, I see."

"All the veins and arteries are back where they need to be. All the muscles correctly attached. He has full function! Full mobility! _Hot __**diggity **_**DAMN**! This must be how Prometheus felt." She unwrapped her arms and grabbed both of his. "I've gotta go find some other fur to operate on!"

"Whoa, there, little girl. You're on an adrenaline high right now, but what you need to do is have some breakfast and brief the rest of the surgical staff.

Her mood dampened a little. "The staff. Right." She sighed and said, "Do you know that not one of the other surgeons would come to watch the operation?"

He clucked his tongue. "Really. Well, I told you. Western doctors are a hidebound bunch, by and large." He led her over to the chairs against the wall. "I think, when you and Cecily get back from your training, that you should be very circumspect in your use of these gifts. It's not completely unthinkable that the AMA might jerk your license if they get wind that you are practicing medicine outside their guidelines."

"Whoof!" She sat up and looked him in the eye. "You know … you might be on to something. I can't say but that I'd have pigeonholed what just happened in there as snake oil if I hadn't done it with my own paws." She flopped back against the seat and assumed a thoughtful expression.

"Well, it isn't among the things you have to worry about right away. I feel sure Master Ort will have some good suggestions on how to practice your art without ticking off the authorities."

"I hope so." She brightened up. "Say, would you like to go talk to Martin?"

"You think he's up to it?"

"I don't see why not. We didn't have to use any anesthesia, so he was able to watch the whole thing. He was intensely curious, and wasn't bothered at all by the sight. He'd probably like to see you."

"Let's go, then. It will be nice to talk with him while he's lucid."

Martin was reclining in the bed, chatting with his mother and three of the nurses. They were taking it by turns to examine his paws, remarking with some force about their current condition versus how they had looked the day before. Siobhan leapt from her chair when 'Rana and Karl walked in, and caught the slender sifaka in a fierce hug. Her eyes bright with tears of joy, she thanked the doctor many times for what she had done, and Karl for his part in it.

When she could catch her breath, 'Rana said, "Ms. O'Musca, I assure you, the pleasure was all mine. I never had more fun operating on anyone in my life. And I know this is just the beginning."

The nurses had stared at her in awe, and at the first opportunity began to ask her questions about this evident miracle she had pulled off.

With a little space to spare, finally, Karl edged over to the bed. "How do you feel, Martin?"

The dormouse held up his paws and flexed the fingers. "They be good as new, sir!" He held out a paw and Karl took it, shaking it gingerly. Martin increased his grasp, and Karl's eyebrows rose.

"That's an impressive grip you've got there."

"Aye. They hurt not a-tall. 'Twas a most amazin' sight t' behold, 's truth." He reached across his chest and ran a paw over the bandage covering his gunshot wound. "This no more hurts, either. I think th' doctor ought to take a peek at it."

'Rana came over, followed by the nurses, and began using Martin's paws for illustrative purposes. "So, you see, the tertiary metacarpal sheath had been stripped. The biogel prevented the tendon from withering, but couldn't have provided a permanent solution. Now with the sheath fully restored there is nothing to compromise the mobility of that finger."

One of them, a shrew, stated, "But that's just not _possible_, Doctor! I've assisted on thirty-two of those operations, and all that can be done is to suture the sheath back together, if there's even enough of it left to do that. Martin's was just _gone!_ I saw it myself!"

"It grew back."

"But they don't _grow_ back!"

"Not without a little help." And she gave the nurse a knowing smile.

"You must have used a synthetic sheath in there _somewhere_!"

'Rana just shook her head.

The shrew threw up her paws and stalked out of the room, muttering something about delusional doctors.

Martin gestured to his mother. She came over and clasped his paw in both of hers. "Aye, son?"

"I was wonderin' … that is, if ye don't mind," and his eyes fell to the sheet in slight embarrassment. He drew a long breath. "… would ye be lettin' Miss Foxx know how the surgery went? Cecily allowed as how she was that worried about me paws."

"No' jist ye paws, I'll warrant." His mother nodded, grinning. "I be doin' tha' this afternoon. Like as not, she'll be wantin' to coom back t' see ye." And she gave him a wink. "Th' day hasn' passed wit'out her callin' th' house. Most deep concerned, she be."

His muzzle fur fluffed out furiously, but he made no audible reply.

##

_** 9:22am **_

The mixed-breed terrier behind the counter at the electronics warehouse didn't look like he'd missed too many meals. He passed the shipping label to Mr. Raines and asked, "That what ya be lookin' for, Red?"

The big 'taur examined the stainless steel cabinet he'd pulled out of the wooden crate, a frown growing. "It's a mite bigger than I thought it'd be. Got a tape measure?"

The chubby dog fished around under the counter and produced the desired item. "This do?"

"Ayah." He took it and quickly slapped it two ways across the face of the box. "Eh. 'bout four centimeters too big both ways."

"How'd you spec it? Panel size?"

"Ayah."

"Measure the backplate. T's how they do it."

Red maneuvered the tape inside the cabinet and took the dimensions of the bright-orange plate. It was right on the money. "Hmph. Flamin' catalog didn't have the first picture." He sighed. "Doesn't matter, I guess. I can fit it well enough. What do I owe ya?"

After writing out the check, he stuffed the cabinet into the larger of his two saddlebags and called, "Obliged," as he trotted out the door.

As long as he was here in town, he reasoned, he might as well get a few of the other items he needed. He got his bearings and headed downtown, to the hobby shop. He was out of a couple of colors of the special acrylic paint he favored, and he had a few more buildings to detail on the newest section of his model railroad. It covered most of his finished basement, some fifty square meters, and occupied much of his spare time lately.

As he crossed South Street, he noticed a large, black motor coach idling in the parking lot of the Super Deli Mart. He did a double take when he saw the Cheetah-Paw logo displayed prominently on its side. _Naw! Can't be!_ He stopped in his tracks, staring at it … wondering … hoping. _Could it …_ _Could that be __her__?_

He decided he couldn't afford _not_ to find out. His errands forgotten, he trotted into the parking lot and cautiously approached the big vehicle. The door was open a crack, so he knocked and called to whomever might be inside.

A thin cheetah stuck his head out. "He'p ya?" Then he realized whom – or what – he was speaking with. He came the rest of the way out of the coach, staring up at the huge foxtaur.

Red cleared his throat. "I was wonderin' … is this, um … is this … Miz _Cheetaur's_ van?

The fellow answered him distractedly in the affirmative, then said, "You're a big 'un, ain't ya?"

Red's pulse sped up. "Is she in? I've wanted to meet her my whole life, and if she's …"

A voice from within asked, "Who's that, Mikey?"

His brain screamed at him, "_That's her! That's her! That's her! That's her!_"

Turning slightly, Mikey called over his shoulder, "It's a 'taur!" He turned back to Red and said, "Didn' catch ya name."

"It's Red. Red Raines." And it was at that point that Cheetaur emerged from the coach.

Red's eyes bugged badly as he tried not to hyperventilate. She was even more breathtaking, more lovely, more vibrant in person than on her infomercials. She wore a fuzzy, white Kashmir sweater (which she filled quite admirably) that draped out into an elegant black, linen cape in a fetching jacquard pattern that sparkled and flashed in the mid-morning sun. A white knit cap sat on her head at a jaunty angle, nearly covering one eyebrow. A slow smile grew on the face under that cap.

Giving him a frankly appraising look, she held out a shapely paw, which he took numbly. She said, "I'm very pleased to meet you, Mr. Raines. It isn't often I get the chance to look up to someone." _Especially, _she thought_, someone who happens to be so easy to look at._

He had _absolutely_ no vocal response available to that statement, but just stood there, his jaw working, while his brain tried to process everything.

She noted his evident distress and offered, "Would you like to come in out of the cold? I have some tea, and some kippers and scones left over from breakfast."

"Ah … um … that is … ayah. Thanks. Sounds good." And he followed her silently into the oversized Prevost.

##

Red finished his third cup of tea, set it down on the high table, and continued. "… So I figured, 'Why not see if this thing's got any market potential?' One thing led to another. Got some good exposure at a trade show." He shrugged in an off-paw manner. "I've got sixteen of 'em in the field now, and all the customers are happy. Got a Guatemalan outfit lookin' to buy five, and the Fish & Game Commission comin' by to check out my place next week. They said they might contract for upwards of thirty." She had quickly and completely put him at ease. He'd gone from tongue-tied to chatterbox in the first four minutes of the visit.

Cheetaur seemed unusually fascinated by his hydroponics business. At least, her eyes never left his face as they sat on either side of the comfortable little table. She'd drawn out the normally taciturn fur with amazing facility, and he only just realized that he had been doing by far the lion's share of the talking.

His muzzle fluffing in embarrassment, he said, "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to be such a long-winded old bag. And you've been such a wonderful hostess, too."

"Flatterer."

"No, really!" He waved a paw around, indicating the luxurious coach. "This is the life a lot of folks dream of having! Travel, excitement, fun!"

"Oh, sure! And road grime, and no regular sleep pattern, and too much rich food, or lousy food." Her eyes turned wistful. "And no roots. No real home. No …" She shook herself and produced a smile. "Please pardon me. That sounded pretty lame."

Red studied her features. He could see, past the carefree exterior, the wear and tear of the life she'd led. "No, ma'am. I'm the one oughta be sorry. Didn't stop to think, just let my jaws flap. You got a heavy load, a big job. Takes its toll, I imagine."

She reached across the table and patted the back of his paw. "It's not that bad, really. I've just had a few bad days lately, and I let it affect my attitude."

"So what made 'em that way?"

"Huh?"

"How come you've had some bad times here recent? Anything I can do ta help?"

She gave a small shrug and withdrew her paw, picking up her spoon and stirring her tea absently. "Not unless you can lead me to a site for filming our Holiday special. Winter Wonderland: New England."

"Oh yeah? That what you here for?"

She nodded. "We need a big place. Somewhere in Vermont, they said. Gotta be on location because the biggest sponsor is headquartered in this state." Slumping a little, she continued, "But I think they've got me boxed in. There are lots of pretty places, but none I've found that fit the bill. Some of the government buildings would do, but they aren't available."

"Big place, eh?"

"Uh-huh."

"Be needin' much indoor space?"

"Right. Indoor and out. Ideally the place would have a big yard or meadow, with some gardens or lots of trees, but plenty of room for snow scenes. And we'd need big rooms indoors, big enough so that I don't look like I'm crowding things."

Red considered her situation while stroking his muzzle. "I see. So … what if I could show you a place like that?"

Her eyes widened, caught his, and glistened. "I'd be very grateful." She put the spoon down and reached for his paw again. "Very, very grateful."

His breath caught, but he swallowed and forged ahead. "If you'd like, I can show it to ya now. Isn't far."

She sat a little straighter. "You aren't joking, are you?"

He shook his head. "We can be there in twenty, thirty minutes."

Her grip tightened as she leaned toward him. "Show me!"

##

_** 10:17am **_

Ellen finished replacing the cups and saucers from breakfast in the cabinet, gave the counter one last polish with the long towel at her waist, and turned back to look at her employer. Her muzzle pulled up in a wry grin, she walked over to where Wendy was standing beside one of the ranges, and just watched her for a moment.

The vixen hadn't budged for several minutes. She leaned against the edge of the counter, a chef's knife resting lightly on a carrot, gazing off into the forest, a small, dreamy smile fixed to her face. Ellen carefully reached over and plucked the knife out of Wendy's grasp. This startled her, and she glanced up at the mink.

"What?"

"You wanna tell me about him?"

"What? Who? What are you talking about?"

"Whoever it is that's got you so worked up."

The grin came back in force. "That obvious?"

"And how. So spill it."

"Okay. You remember about how Martin got rescued?"

"Yeah. Hunting guide found him, wasn't it?"

"That's it."

"And?"

"He was in Martin's room when I dropped off the basket yesterday."

"Oh! Tell! Tell! What's he like?"

"He's got the most gorgeous eyes you ever …"

_**Bing-Bong!**_

They both looked up in the direction of the front of the house. Wendy asked, "You expecting anybody?"

Ellen shook her head. "Not me."

Wendy scraped all the pieces of vegetable off the cutting board and into a bowl, which she popped into the fridge. Then they both started for the front door.

Ellen nudged the vixen. "And?"

"Well, he's a little older than I am, and he used to be in the Marines. Forest Recon, I think he said."

"Still got all his factory original equipment?"

"Heh. Well, if not, he didn't mention it." She cocked her head in memory. "He looked okay to me." Smiling wider, she added, "Better than okay."

"Fine. But what's so special about him to get you all cockeyed and giggly?"

"Ah … hum … I guess it's a combination of things." They turned the corner into the Main Hall. "He's got a wicked sense of humor. And a cute butt. And he's tall … and very muscular."

"Huh. Sounds like Karl, if you ask me."

Wendy turned a suspicious eye on the mink. "Oh, really."

"Oh, yeah." She licked her chops. "That wolverine has what it takes, you want my opinion."

"Hmnh."

"I'm actually kinda surprised you didn't go after him yourself. Even if he is younger, you two seemed like you enjoyed each other's company. What happened, he spit in your beer or something?"

When Wendy didn't answer right away, Ellen glanced over at her, noting with no small shock the stormy expression on her face. _Geez, what did I say?_ She decided that shutting up would be the better part of valor.

Wendy spotted the huge shadow against the front door, and her jaw set even more grimly. She stomped through the entryway and without bothering to look through the peephole, yanked the door wide. She opened her mouth to speak … but nothing came out.

It was _not_ Karl!

It was a 'taur, and a big one. He pulled his cap off and gave her a brief nod. "Mornin' miss."

"Ah … good morning."

He extended his paw, saying, "Name's Red Raines. I live down toward Waltham. You be Miz Wylde?"

She took it, and shook it dazedly. _Come on, paradigm! Shift, already!_ "Yes, that's me. Wendy Wylde." She straightened up a bit and asked, "Would you like to come in?"

"Thankee, miss." He trotted into the foyer, and Wendy shut the door.

She stared up at him and asked, "Is there something I can do for you?"

"Matter of fact, there is."

"Hey, Wendy!"

She turned to find Ellen squinting out through the door. "What?"

"There's a great big RV in the driveway."

Wendy turned back to Red. "Yours?"

"No'm. That's why I'm here. See, that belongs to Miz Cheetaur, what is the spokesfur for Cheetah-Paw Tire Company." He paused, grinning, as if that explained everything.

"Okay … so … that means what?"

"Oh. Um, see she's here to do a video-shoot for their Holiday special. You ever seen 'em?"

"Cheetah-Paw? Yeah. A few times. They're pretty good, usually." Then it clicked. "You want … you want to shoot the video _here?_"

"Uh … yes'm. That is, she'd like to look the place over and see if it'd suit. I ha'n't been in here before, but I heard from Quinn that you got the old house standin' tall." He gazed around, peering down the Main Hall. "Bigger inside than I thought it'd be."

Wendy's mental gears kicked into overdrive.

_Cheetah-Paw Tire Company._

_A video special! _

_Shot here! _

_Nationwide broadcast ! !_

**_Free publicity ! ! !_**

**_Big corporate sponsors ! ! ! !_**

**_HOLY FREAKING SHIT ! ! ! ! !_**

She swallowed a couple of times and said, "Um … sure. Yeah, bring her in. I'll give her the dollar tour."

He took her paw and pumped it. "Thanks, Miz Wylde! I'll go get her!" And with that he spun and shot out the door.

Ellen's eyes were huge. "Wendy? Does that mean …"

She nodded slowly. "People like me dream about breaks like this. Oh, I hope, I hope, I _hope_ she likes the Inn! Talk about getting put on the map!"

##

It wasn't so much that Cheetaur 'liked' the Inn. No.

'Flipped over it' would be a better description. The Main Hall was "absolutely perfect" for the intro shots and the narratives. "That parquet floor is to die for!" The library was "ideal" for the follow-up interviews with the stars of the show. "We'll have a big, roaring fire going in the background!" And the great, sweeping front lawn, snuggled up against the forest, "could not possibly be any better suited" for the outdoor scenes. She positively _gushed_ about the copper beech, the ornate spiral staircases, the chandeliers, the front porch, the second-floor suites, and on, and on, and on ….

Wendy wobbled back and forth between shock and delight. Had she been given a month to think about it, she could not have fabricated a better set up than Cheetaur was offering her. Especially when she found out that Wendy could cater the whole affair.

As the backdrop for the production, Ash Creek Inn would be presented in the best possible light. The program, Cheetaur had confided, would reach an estimated eighteen million households in its initial run, between syndicated TV and webcast. Then it would go immediately to holodisk, reaching between twelve and fifteen million more in the next year and a half.

It made the vixen's head spin.

"We'll be back the first week in November to start shooting, but between now and then the creative director and technical boys will need to come by to check the layout for the camera angles."

"Oh, that's no problem! Anytime before four, Monday through Thursday, and the place is theirs!"

"Goodness! You certainly are accommodating." Cheetaur turned to her large companion, leaned over and gave him a hug. "You were dead on target, Red! This is going to be one of our better shows, I just know!"

Tentatively at first, but then with a little more confidence, he returned her hug. "I was just glad to help, Miz Cheetaur."

She pulled back just enough to look him in the eye. "I'll make a deal with you. You call me 'Marr', and I'll give you more chances to use it."

His eyes lit at that, and a silly grin leapt across his face. "Okay … Marr."

"That's better." She looked back to Wendy. "I've gotta get back in touch with headquarters. Million things to do! Busy, busy, busy!" But she didn't let go of Red's paw as they trotted away down the Hall together.

As the front door closed Wendy wheeled around and grabbed both of Ellen's arms. "Ellen! The phone!"

"What? What about it?"

"I've got some people to call!" And she took off toward her office

##


	16. Interlude 3

**[Author's Note: I wish to apologize for getting things out of order with the last chapter. Book 3 actually concludes with this Interlude. I will begin Book 4 tomorrow with Interlude 4 and a re-posting of the removed chapter.]**

. . .

. . .

. . .

**_Interlude #3_**

_The door to my office swings open and hits the wall hard._

_Karl's presence seems to fill every nook, blanket every surface, as he stalks across to my workstation. The bunched and rolling muscles under his dark-mahogany skin strain the thin fabric of the tee shirt, threatening to split the sleeves. He had to duck to get under the doorframe, and his long hair, I notice, is plaited in thin dreadlocks. Black eyes snapping, he plants both massive fists on the center of my desk, leaning down until his nose is two centimeters from mine._

_His voice chillingly low and controlled, he growls, "Would you mind terribly explaining to me what you think you're doing?"_

_This (to craft a masterpiece of understatement) is unexpected. I am not able to form a cogent response immediately, but after swallowing a few times I say, __**"It would help if you could tell me what specific incident has you … upset."**_

_He doesn't move back, but mouths one word: "Wendy." _

_I can no more take my eyes from his than a feather can withstand a blast furnace. __**"Ah."**__ I shift a little in my seat, rolling it back a bit__**. "Um … what about her?"**_

"_I'm in love with her."_

"That's … um … not exactly a news flash. You've been in love …"

_He raises his right fist perhaps five centimeters and slams it back down. I absolutely can __not__ help flinching badly. The heavy wood top splinters and buckles. I note in passing that the desk no longer sits parallel with the floor. He rumbles, "I want to know why."_

_I find myself wishing he would just let loose and shout. This low, even tone stands in jarring contrast to his body language. My back prickles as the sweat springs out all over. Shakily, I sigh what I hope is a convincing sigh and reply, __**"Initially it was because she replaced Phoebe in that part of your mind. But the two of you have grown close for other reasons. Plus there's the physical attraction …"**_

"_I want to know why you let it happen."_

_Now this bothers me. **"Ex****cuse**** me? Why ****I**** let it happen? Give me a break! More often than not I've been nothing more than a glorified stenographer! Don't give me any crap about why ****I**** let it happen."**_

"_You could have stopped it. You could have done something about my feelings before it got this far. You knew there was no way we could …"_

"_**Oh, right. Like I got any help from **__**you**__** in that regard."**_

"_What's that crack supposed to mean?"_

"_**Pleeeease! Every single time I tried steering you off, you jerked the boat back around. I couldn't have written you two apart if my life depended on it! Emotionally, I mean."**_

_He seems to ease up the tiniest fraction, which I would like to encourage. "Well, what about … well, then … well why is __she__ so stubborn, then? She won't even __talk__ to me about our differences! If I so much as mention God or faith or religion, it's like this gray wall clamps down over her face. Can't you do something about that?"_

"_**No more than I can do anything about your approach to your faith. If Wendy comes to an understanding with God, it will have to be on her own terms. Don't think you're going to argue her around to your position."**_

"_But, dammit, Clint, you're the W__RITER__!"_

"_**And you'd be amazed at how little control that affords me."**_

_He seems to … deflate; he slumps back, turns, and walks over to lean his face against the wall. "Then there isn't anything I can do?"_

"_**You can be her friend."**_

_He says nothing for such a long time that I think he's forgotten where he is. But finally, he whispers, "I don't know if I can do that."_

"Why not?"

_He turns back to me. Tears track his face. I can see where several of them have left spots on the front of his shirt. "You know what I've been through. You know more than anyone what living has cost me. You said yourself you didn't know how I'd managed it." He wiped his eyes with the back of one hand. "And now you want me to 'just be friends' with the woman I love? The one who fits perfectly that hole in my heart? The one femme with whom I know beyond doubt I could grow old happily? You want me to watch as she finds someone else to love? To pretend I'm okay with that?"_

_I relax a little. Just a little.__** "I'm not asking or expecting you to do anything. You'll do what you make up your mind to do. Just as she will. If you two could find some kind of middle ground to work from …"**_

"_I told you. She won't discuss it."_

"_**Then you'll have to find another way. If it means that much to you. If you think she's worth it."**_

_He comes back over to the desk, and from his expression I am afraid I have pushed too hard. Scowling, he says, "I'll not sell my salvation for temporal happiness, if that's what you're getting at."_

"_**No! Not at all! But don't you see? If you want her to come around to your way of thinking, she will have to want it! She'll have to want what you have, what makes you happy, what makes you the confident and successful fur … um … that is, um, person you are. She will have to realize that she's missing out on something, something you have and can share with her. And that is not going to happen overnight."**_

_He stares at me for a stretch, then pulls a long sigh and says, "Life's about changes, isn't it?" He shakes his heavy head and walks back to the door. He stops then and turns back to me, an odd expression on his face. "You know, I read a volume of Ella Wilcox's work once."_

_I reply, __**"Yes? Something applicable?"**_

_He nods. Staring up at one corner of the room, he recites,_

"_So many gods, so many creeds,  
__So many paths that wind and wind,  
__While just the art of being kind  
__Is all the sad world needs."_

_I smile in approval.** "That's nice. I like it." **_

"_So do I." That seems to make some sort of connection in his mind. He nods decisively to himself and leaves._

_I realize I am trembling. The thought crosses my mind that it's just possible that this whole project may be getting out of hand. I look at my poor desk. The center drawer is quite stuck, the desktop collapsed into it, and one of the legs is broken. Definitely time to get a new one._

_**And**__, I think to myself, __**it's time I did something about that Portal. I don't need any more incidents like that one. If he can fake out the security systems and use it, so can the others. And there's at least one who has absolutely no business on this side of things. For the moment, though, just shutting it down will have to suffice. I'll have Lawrence take a look at it tomorrow.**_

_I go to the wall and open the panel to the Portal's control unit, executing the power-down sequence and shutting off the grid. Then I place the call to my assistant's pager._

. . .

. . .

. . .

**Here Ends Book 3**


End file.
